

0DDD4fc,3fi3bD 


-■'iA 








> V-' ifljr 


.1 





'' 5 7 * • »V ^ 

ag 

t^-'i* ilij .'>'/• :’V,.'i5(i,k. 




• % • 


• -lA 


r^ 








•>1 «r ' ■nspiip^HBi M 

4tr Jr->i T < • “w XJiliflwSW#. II 

i'r.t'iJiSafflK .■ .A I'w 


•' > 

U, ^ ! ‘ ■ -,). V 


R '> 









1 

" ' 4lB 

- '’Vi"* 

« 

£• il 

p4 1 

t 

. t * 

* ■, ♦■ 

p 

♦.* 

t 

" 4 1 

1 ■ 

‘ ' ■ ■•*' vi 

IKb 

d 

•• 

\ 

k 

^ ' . '% - ' 7 

•<*’ » 

r« « m 

m 

. t 

« 



^ ■!« 

\lll 

rt; ‘BJ UKjM^' a 

mmt^y 



/ « 


■' .<•>!)■ 1 ' i;/';' '■■ifi 

^ffCliE,, .'<*i.v'-'<' i.> . 4"v »r^. Y>lA*!jAvK 


> ^ 










I 



V 




) 4, r 

'll 


f* 


f 


'I 


» 



I • 


I 





f 


> 


‘i 




1 


I 


I 


V 


*• 


f 


t 


$ 


» 


t 


r 


0 


> 


4 


I 







I' • ’f 


I 




/ 


\ 


% 

\ 


t 





I . > . 


/ 


r / 




« 



I 


f 


I 

I 


t 


[ 


■i 


}‘ 


t 


fi 

j 


« 


I 


‘^- 




* 




) 

t 


, » f 


( 

1 1 
A’t 



A-?. 

- 

••*4 

I " • ' . 


r 


t 


I 


• t 


The Works of Mrs. Gaskell 


ftnutefori) £^ition 


EIGHT VOLUMES 


1. Mary Barton 5. My Lady Ludlow 

2. Cranford 6. Sylvia’s Lovers 

3. Ruth 7. Cousin Phillis 

4. North and South 8. Wives and Daughters 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
New York 


London 


iRnur0fot& Eettion 


THE WORKS 

OF 

MRS. GASKELL 

IN EIGHT VOLUMES 


With a General Biographical Introduction, and 
a Critical Introduction to Each Volume. 

BY 

DR. A. W. WARD 

Master of Peterhouse, Cambridge 

WHO HAS RECEIVED THE KIND ASSISTANCE OF THE 


MISSES GASKELL 


**Mr8. Qaskell has done what neither I nor other female 
writers in France can accomplish — she has written novels 
which excite the deepest interest in men of the world, and 
yet which every girl will be the better for reading.” 


QEORaB SAND. 


IftnutsforO Ebitton 


MARY BARTON 


'' Br . * 

MRS. GASKELL 

tl 


To which are added 

“Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras,” “ Clopton House," 
“The Sexton’s Hero” 


WITH BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION BY 


DR. A. W. WARD 

Master of Peterhouse, Cambridge 


NEW YORK : G. P. PUTNAM S SONS 
LONDON ; SMITH, ELDER, & CO. 

1906 



UBRARYefOONQRESS 
TwoOvutes KecctvM 


Stf- 4 tSUb 

CopyitfnT Entry 
Ol^S * Oi, AAC. No. 


Copyright, 1906 

BY 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons 
(For Introduction) 



To 

Miss Gaskell and Miss Julia Gaskell 

in sincere friendship 
and in grateful acknowledgment 
of their countenance and kindly aid 

I DEDICATE 

This Edition of the Works of 

THEIR MOTHER 

A. W. W. 


Pethrhouse, 

Cambridge. 
August, 1906. 





. 4 ' 

» 

# ■ 




• I 






r 

i 


‘I 


I 



•f 







» 

» f 


M /.* 

r.» ‘ , 

f > » 


’/'« B ' I » 


■i 


A ‘ . > . ■ • '■*' • 


>i' 




» 


/.» I ’ 

/ / • ' * ^ 

' < I <4 ^ l| ^ I / I V 


r.-’ ’■.•• 






1: V 


i' 

»• 


T ■• 


• ;,' 





v ; m‘ k ' V*- , 

J4m , ‘ * 


' , " ;.:,iirr( .»,i ;i)aTrr‘ > 






CONTENTS 


PACK 


Editor’s Preface 


Biographical Introduction , , 

• 

• 

• 


XI 

xiii 

Introduction to “ Mary Barton,” etc . 

• 

• 

• 

, 

li 

Preface to the Original Edition of 1848 


• 

• 

.Ixxix 

MARY BARTON— 






« HAl'TKR 







I. 

A ]\Iysterious Disappearance , 

• 

• 

• 

• 

1 

II. 

A Manchester Tea-Party . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

11 

III. 

John Barton’s Great Trouble. 

, 

• 

• 

• 

18 

IV. 

Old Alice’s History . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

28 

V. 

The Mill on Fire . 

, 

• 

• 

• 

40 

VI. 

Poverty and Death , 

. 

• 

• 

• 

62 

VII. 

Jem Wilson’s Repulse 

. 

• 

• 

• 

82 

VIII. 

Margaret’s Debut as a Public Singer 

■ 

• 

• 

91 

IX. 

Barton’s London Experiences , 

. 


• 

• 

109 

X. 

Return of the Prodigal . 

. 


• 

• 

128 

XI. 

Mr. Carson’s Intentions revealed 

1 , 


• 


143 

XII. 

Old Alice’s Bairn 

. 

• 

• 


159 

XIII. 

A Traveller’s Tales • 

. 

• 

• 


170 

XIV. 

Jem’s Interview with Poor Esther 

• 

• 


181 

XV. 

A Violent Meeting between the 

Rivals 

• 

• 

194 

XVI. 

Meeting between Masters and Workmen 

• 

• 

208 

XVII. 

Barton’s Night-Errand . 

. 

. 

• 

• 

221 

XVIII, 

Murder 





233 


vii 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

XIX. 

Jem Wilson arrested on Suspicion . 

. 

PAGE 

247 

XX. 

Mary’s Dream— and the Awakening . 

• 

261 

XXI. 

Esther’s Motive in seeking Mary 

. 

269 

XXII. 

Mary’s Efforts to prove an Alibi 

• 

281 

XXIII. 

The Sub-Pcena ..... 

. 

294 

XXIV. 

With the Dying .... 

. 

3C8 

XXV. 

Mrs. Wilson’s Determination 

. 

318 

XXVI. 

The Journey to Liverpool 

. 

327 

XXVII. 

In the Liverpool Docks 

. 

331 

XXVIII. 

“ John Cropper,” Ahoy ! . . . 

. 

340 

XXIX. 

A True Bill against Jem . 


348 

XXX. 

Job Legh’s Deception .. . 

. 

355 

XXXI. 

How Mary passed the Night 

.. 

360 

XXXII. 

The Trial and Verdict — “ Not Guilty I ” 


366 

XXXIII. 

Requiescat in Pace 

. 

388 

XXXIV. 

The Return Home ..... 

. 

403 

XXXV. 

“ Forgive us our Trespasses.” . 

. 

418 

XXXVI. 

Jem’s Interview with Mr. Duncombe 

. 

433 

XXXVII. 

Details connected with the Murder 

. 

441 

XXXVIII. 

Conclusion ....... 


452 


LIBBIB MABSH’S THEBE EEAS— 

Era I. Valentine’s Day 459 

Era II. Whitsuntide ....... 469 

Era III. Michaelmas 479 

THE- SEXTON’S' HERO 49O 

CLOPTON HOUSE (with Prefatory Note), 

viii 


502 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

Portrait op Mrs. Gaskell Frontispiece 

From the drawing by G. Richmond, R.A. 

A Court in Hulmb, Manchester ... To face page xlviii 

From a drawing by William Canning. • 




ix 


b 


i 'A*- t''V 

.i. ,v. 

, . l« ; uiV.> ■' ii'",’)'i'.» U 


.1.!! ■]0 T^KI 

. ■ -I .i^r.U', -}>: 

/. '.N ('■ '. .s > 

I.'" .'TtM'iH ?*l 


EDITOR’S PREFACE 


The Knutsford Edition of the Works of Mrs. Gaskell 
aims at including all those which she would have desired 
to see included in a “definitive” edition of her writings. 
The text has been carefully revised, and not a few long- 
lived errors of the Press have been removed. In the 
Introductions it has been sought to avoid an expository 
kind of criticism of which few authors have ever stood 
less in need, and details of a sort which in Mrs. GaskeU's 
dehberate judgment ought to form no part of a writer’s 
literary legacy. It is not believed that she would have 
disliked the name whicb this Edition has made bold 
to assume. So closely is that name identified with the 
title of one of her books that when her kinsman, Lord 
Knutsford, was choosing a title for his peerage, there 
was a current jest about his having hesitated between 
“Knutsford’^ and “Cranford.” The former of these 
names not only possesses n wide literary significance, but 
is associated with her life and affections in a way that 
makes it appropriate to what is intended as a memorial 
of herself in her writings — the only memorial she ever 
desired. 

The present Editor would never have undertaken a 
task which, in a spirit of friendly confidence very gratify- 
ing to him, Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. invited him to 
perform, had it not been for the wish kindly expressed 
by Mrs. Gaskell’s daughters — Miss Gaskell and Miss 
Julia B. Gaskell — that he should accept this invitation. 
They have afforded him invaluable assistance in his 
attempt to make this Edition not wholly unworthy of 

xi 


Editor’s Preface 

her and of their devotion; but he feels that he is best 
meeting their wishes if he refrains from indicating any 
particular debt owed by him to information supplied, 
corrections made, or suggestions offered by them. 

The Editor’s own kinsman and lamented friend, the 
late William Thomas Arnold, had at one time hoped to 
furnish special introductions to Mrs. Gaskell’s chief 
productions; and he left behind him a collection of 
critical extracts and a few — too few — notes of his own, 
of which occasional use has been made in these volumes. 
Mr. Arnold spent some time on the problem of the best 
arrangement of the sequence of the stories, without 
arriving at any definite solution. In the present Edition 
it has been thought best to follow the order of chrono- 
logical sequence of the principal works, the minor tales 
and other papers being distributed among the several 
volumes, as far as possible in the order of their appear- 
ance. Papers not previously printed in collected 
editions of Mrs. Gaskell’s works are here inserted each in 
its proper place, with the exception of a few fragments 
for which it is hoped that a place may be found in one 
of the later volumes of this Edition. 

The Editor has to thank Mr. W. E. A. Axon for 
various services rendered by him with his habitual 
generosity. To his guidance is owing the choice of the 
court in Hulme, from which Mr. William Canning, of 
Manchester, has made the drawing prefixed to the present 
volume ; and Mr. Axon has given other occasional 
assistance for which it is a particular pleasure to thank 
him. Of his Annals of Manchester, and more es- 
pecially of the Gaskell Bibliography compiled by 
himself and Mr. Ernest Axon, free use has been made. I 
have also referred to the Hand-List of the “Gaskell 
Collection” in the Moss Side Public Library, Manchester, 

xii 


Editor’s Preface 

made by Mr. J. A. Green. My friend Mr. Charles 
Rowley, of Manchester, has given advice in the se- 
lection of illustrations for some of these volumes. Mr. 
Bernard Holland has kindly allowed the reprinting in 
the Introduction to Cranford of some pages of his 
deeply interesting Life and Letters of Mary Sibylla 
Holland, published by Mr. Edward Arnold. Other 
obligations have been, or will be, duly acknowledged in 
the special Introductions prefixed to the successive 
volumes of this Edition. 

A. W. WARD. 

Peterhouse Lodge, Cambridge, 

May 30th, 1906. 


xiii 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION 


The facts of Mrs. Gaskell’s life were few and simple; 
and it would have been not less repugnant to the high- 
spirited candour of her nature that they should be ex- 
panded by fancy than that they should be distorted 
by design. Fortune cast no shadows across the path 
of her personal experiences save such as are the lot of 
mortality; and the fame which suddenly encircled her 
brow, before she had yet passed into middle age, was 
alike unasked and undisturbing. Beyond a doubt that 
fame, and the consciousness of the genius which had 
brought it to her and which sustained it, added a new 
significance to the labour in which she delighted; but 
it in no wise changed or unsettled the even tenor of her 
existence. Her husband, who had won her hand in the 
days of her beautiful girlhood, was the associate of the 
best and highest thoughts of her womanly maturity; 
and the honoured name that she left was safe in the care 
of her dearly loved daughters. On such a life who 
would not wish to look back; to it who is not ready to 
look up ? But it could hardly be told in detail without 
its onward flow seeming to be broken, and its inner unity 
marred. 

It has thus seemed advisable to prefix to the present 
Edition the substance of the plain account of Mrs. 
Gaskell’s life and literary work, which appeared, a few 
years ago,, in vol. xxi of the Dictionary of National 
Biography, with such additions as have since become 
possible. The facts given in that narrative may be 
taken as authentic; for such particulars as have been 


XV 


Biographical Introduction 

added in the present version, the Editor, where he has 
not cited his authority, is prepared to hold himself 
responsible. And he ventures to think that to their 
number few further facts of importance are likely to be 
added. 

Elizabeth Cleghom Gaskell was bom on September 
29th, 1810, in Lindsay Row — ^^called by some Lindsay 
Place — which at the present day forms part of Cheyne 
Walk, Chelsea. She was the daughter, by .his first 
marriage, of William Stevenson, a man of some mark, 
and of a versatility of mind sufficiently attested by his 
career. He was a native of Berwick-on-Tweed ; but, 
according to a tradition half-humorously cherished by 
his celebrated daughter, his family was of Norwegian 
descent, and its name was in old family papers occasion- 
ally spelt Stevensen. His father was a captain in the 
Royal Navy; and his brother, Joseph Stevenson, was a 
lieutenant in the same service (he died in a French 
prison). Captain Stevenson’s wife, Isabella, whose 
maiden name was Thomson, was first cousin, once re- 
moved, to the author of The Seasons. A strong love 
of the sea must have run in the family; and Mrs. Gaskell’s 
only brother Charles entered the Merchant Service, in 
which he in turn became a lieutenant. In the course 
of his last voyage he mysteriously disappeared; and, un- 
like Peter in Cranford, was never found again. The 
incident can hardly have failed to arouse in her a painful 
interest in the subject of “Disappearances, ” on which she 
put together a curious paper. 

In Mrs. Gaskell’s father, William Stevenson, many 
fresh interests were at work. In his early manhood he 
became a Unitarian minister, and preached in that 
capacity in Dob Lane Chapel, Manchester. Simulta- 


XVI 


Biographical Introduction 

neously he performed the duties of classical tutor at the 
Manchester Academy, where not a few nonconformists, 
who afterward attained to distinction, received their 
education. Having' quitted the Unitarian ministry, 
he for a time combined farming with the management 
of a private school — somewhat as Mr. Hale in North 
and South y for conscientious reasons, resigned his 
incumbency and took to teaching ; and of this period of 
his life we may safely trace some features in the character 
(in Cousin Phillis) of Mr, Holman, farmer and divine, 
who prayed and worked with his farm-hands, and came 
home from the fields to study his Bible and his Vergil. 
Ultimately, William Stevenson was, through the interest 
of the Earl of Lauderdale, appointed Keeper of the 
Records to the Treasury. By this time he had acquired 
a considerable literary reputation, having contributed 
•articles and papers to the Edinburgh Review, and other 
publications of a high class, especially on agricultural 
subjects. He died in r829; but, though there must 
have been some' intellectual affinity between his daughter 
and himself, she saw little of him in his later years, 
when he had married again, and her occasional visits 
to Chelsea, where she found him living far from happily, 
were very saddening to herself. By his first wife he 
had, besides his daughter, a son named John. Father 
Joseph Stevenson, S.J., the distinguished historian 
and archivist, who, after holding a benefice in the 
Church of England, became a Roman Catholic and a 
Jesuit, and at one time held a prominent position at 
Stonyhurst, was Mrs. Gaskell’s first cousin. During 
the last weeks of her father’s life, he was nursed by her 
with the utmost devotion. 

Mrs. Gaskell’s mother, Elizabeth Stevenson, was a 
daughter of Samuel, the fourth son of John Holland of 

xvii 


Biographical Introduction 

Mobberley — the head of the Cheshire (Mobberley) 
branch of an old and once powerful Lancashire family, 
and of Anne Swinton, whose family had been connected 
with Knutsford for more than two centuries. Samuel 
Holland farmed his own land at Sandle Bridge in 
Cheshire, two or three miles from Knutsford, to which 
his grand-daughter was to give a world-wide celebrity. 
Sandle Bridge, which had come into the possession of 
the Hollands by the marriage, in 1718, of John Holland 
to Mary Colthurst, the heiress of a family possessed of 
the property for several generations, was very probably 
the “Woodley” of Cranford — the simple house 
“among fields,” with “an old-fashioned garden where 
roses and currant-bushes touched each other;” audit 
may have suggested one or another feature of ‘ ‘ Heath- 
bridge” in Cousin Phillis. The great Lord Clive, 
whose mother was a Gaskell, and who, according to a 
long-standing tradition, was connected with the Holland 
family, when a schoolboy in Knutsford, spent some of 
his holidays at Sandle Bridge, where it was his joy to 
terrify the Hollands by jumping from the ball on the 
top of one of two stone gate-posts to its fellow on the 
other. Mrs. Gaskell’s uncle, Peter Holland, the father 
of the eminent physician Sir Henry Holland, and the 
grand-father of the present Lord Knutsford, resided at 
Church House in the little town, and no doubt after- 
wards furnished her with a type, the good country 
doctor, of which, like some other novelists, she was 
fond, and which she reproduced with increasing satis- 
faction and success in Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Con- 
fessions, and in the long-suffering Mr. Gibson of her 
last work. Wives and Daughters. 

With Knutsford Mrs. Gaskell very early in her life 
began to acquire that kind of familiarity which no other 

xviii 


Biographical Introduction 

kind of admonitus loci can equal or supplant. Within 
a month after her birth she lost her mother, and 'was for 
a week entrusted by her helpless father to the care of a 
shopkeeper’s wife. She was then taken down to her 
mother’s sister, Mrs. Lumb, who was living at Knutsford; 
the journey from London being made in the care of a 
family friend, a Mrs. Whittington; so that the legend of 
Mrs. Gaskell’s early travels having suggested the ad- 
ventures of the “babby” in Mary Barton seems to 
require some modification. It was thought that the 
presence of the little Elizabeth might brighten the life of 
Marianne, Mrs. Lumb’s only child, who was a cripple; but 
death soon parted them. Elizabeth’s aunt, however, 
became a second mother to her, and the modest house 
on the heath, with its old-fashioned garden, a second 
home. Here, in the midst of a small society of relatives 
and friends, she spent her childhood; taking part in 
Sunday worship at the ivy-grown Unitarian chapel on 
the hillside, which was to be her last resting-place; 
paying many a visit to her uncle and his daughters at 
Church House, and to her grand-father at Sandle Bridge; 
and occasionally journeying to London to see her father. 

When about fifteen years of age she was sent to a 
school kept at Stratford-on-Avon by the Miss Byerleys, 
daughters of Josiah Wedgwood’s principal assistant and 
friend. At this school (where was also educated Miss 
Boucheret, afterwards an early and a munificent sup- 
porter of the movement for women’s suffrage, and a 
friend of Madame Bodichon), she learnt, like Shake- 
speare at the grammar school near by, “some Latin,” 
as well as French — a language and literature for which 
she always had a special affection — and Italian. That 
she kept her eyes open for the associations of the chosen 
part of England into which she had been transplanted 

xix 


Biographical Introduction 

is shown by her earliest published piece of prose, the 
charming sketch of “ Clop ton Hall,’J which allows us 
to picture to ourselves its youthful visitor roving “fancy 
free” in the green lanes by the river side. “I had been 
brought up by the river Avon in Warwickshire, ’ says the 
Signora Brunoni in Cranford, by way of explaining 
why she was not terrified by woods and waters in the 
course of her wanderings in India. . 

^ At Stratford Elizabeth Stevenson remained two years 
including holiday times; and it must have been on her 
return to Knutsford that she began unconsciously to 
collect those humorous impressions of the life and 
society of the little town, which were afterwards to be 
reproduced in the inimitable sketches of Cranford, 
in the admirable narrative of Mr. Harrison’s startling ex- 
periences as a young medical practitioner at Dun- 
combe, and in the mellow- tinted picture of Hollingford 
in Wives and Daughters. But wider aspects of men 
and things were opening to her. She continued to pay 
occasional visits to London, where, after her father’s 
death, on April 22, 1829, she stayed with her uncle, Mr. 
Swinton Holland, in Park Lane. She spent two winters 
at Newcastle-on-Tyne, not far from the haunts of her 
ancestors north of the Humber, in the family of the Rev. 
William Turner, a learned and public-spirited Uni- 
tarian minister and a very remarkable man, from whom 
some features in the sympathetic character of Thurstan 
Benson, in Ruth are supposed to have been derived. 
Mr. Turner, to whom George Stephenson is said to have 
acknowledged himself indebted for much of his scientific 
knowledge, died in Manchester, at the age of ninety- 
seven, in 1859. His grave is at Brook Street Chapel in 
Knutsford, near that of Mrs. Gaskell. And a third 
winter was rendered memorable to her by a sojourn at 

XX 


Biographical Introduction 

Edinburgh, of whose perennially attractive society she 
drew a lively picture many years afterwards in the 
Introduction to Round the Sofa. Her youthful 
beauty was greatly admired at Edinburgh, and several 
painters and sculptors asked permission to take her 
portrait. Fortunately, it was granted in the case of 
Mr. D. Dunbar, whose lovely bust of her, reproduced in 
marble, is one of the chief ornaments of the Christie 
Library in the Victoria University, Manchester. 

On August 30, 1832, a new chapter in her life opened 
with her marriage, in the Parish Church at Knutsford, 
to the Rev. William Gaskell, then, and to the end of his 
life, joint minister of the Unitarian Chapel in Cross 
Street, Manchester.] Mr. Gaskell (whose father was a 
prosperous manufacturer) not only held the most im* 
portant administrative offices in his own denomination, 
and in connection with its Home Missionary Board and 
its chief College for the training of ministers (Manchester 
New College, now removed to Oxford) , but he also taught 
in the latter for several years as Professor of English 
history and literature. He acted as lecturer on English 
literature in the evening classes’ department of the 
Owens College, Manchester; and, as it so happened 
that (I think in 1866) I took over those classes on my 
appointment to a professorship in that vigorous young 
institution, I can testify to his popularity with the 
students, and to the enthusiasm whch he inspired in 
them. He was a remarkably handsome man even in 
his later years, and the refinement and charm of his 
manner were well set off by a dignified reserve. A 
trained English scholar and accomplished writer, he 
also possessed a marked poetical gift which he chiefly 
exercised in the composition, and translation from the 
German, of hymns and other sacred verse. 

xxi 


Biographical Introduction 

Mrs. Gaskell’s married life was one of unbroken 
happiness, and, especially in the earliest years of it, she 
was able to identify her interests completely with those 
of her husband. She describes somewhere how she 
used to accompany him on his drives to preachings in 
the towns near Manchester — then not so easily accessible 
as they are now; and, while ready to devote some of 
her leisure to teaching, she was from the first eager to 
take part in works of charity; for her heart was always 
full of fervent sympathy with affliction. It is not, 
however, generally known that it was the nearer ac- 
quaintance which she thus gained with the homes and 
ways of the poor, and the circumstance that Mr. 
Gaskell was specially attracted by poets and poetry 
that treated such subjects, and frequently lectured 
about it to popular audiences, which suggested an 
extremely interesting literary collaboration between 
husband and wife. 

Writing, in August, 1838, to Mrs. Howitt, she says : 
“We once thought of trying to write sketches among 
the poor, rather in the manner of Crabbe (now don’t 
think this presumptuous), but in a more seeing-beauty 
spirit; and one — the only one — was published in Black- 
wood, January, 1837. But I suppose we spoke our 
plan near a dog-rose, for it never went any further. ” * 

Although the poem is long, and although it cannot be 
said to have much of the force which is rarely wanting 
to any narrative sketch of Crabbe ’s as a whole, it seems 

* I owe my knowledge of the existence of this poem, and of 
Mrs. Gaskell’s reference to it, to a passage in Mr John Mortimer’s 
admirable article on her as a “Lancashire Novelist” in The 
Manchester Quarterly, No. Ixxxiii., for July, 1902. The letter 
to Mrs. Howitt will be found in an interesting paper, entitled 
“Stray Notes from Mrs. Gaskell, ” contributed by Miss Margaret 
Howitt to Good Words for 1895 (pp. 604-612). 


XXll 


Biographical Introduction 

to me worth reprinting here. And this, not only be- 
cause, as will be pointed out in the introductory pages 
prefixed to, Mary Barton, a character and a passage, 
a most attractive character and a very pathetic passage 
in that story, are prefigured in the poetic “ Sketch,” 
but also and chiefly because it furnishes the earliest 
proof of an insight and a sympathy which, to my mind, 
are of the essence of Mrs. Gaskell’s genius as a writer. 

SKETCHES AMONG THE POOR. 

No. I. 

In childhood’s days, I do remember me 
Of one dark house behind an old elm-tree, 

By gloomy streets surrounded, where the flower 
Brought from the fresher air, scarce for an hour 
Retained its fragrant scent ; yet men lived there. 

Yea, and in happiness; the mind doth clear 
In most dense airs its own bright atmosphere. 

But in the house of which I spake there dwelt 
One by whom all the weight of smoke was felt. 

She had o’erstepped the bound ’twixt youth and age 

A single, not a lonely, woman, sage 

And thoughtful ever, yet most truly kind: 

Without the natural ties, she sought to bind 
Hearts unto hers, with gentle, useful love. 

Prompt at each change in sympathy to move. 

And so she gained the affection, which she prized 
From every living thing, howe’er despised — 

A call upon her tenderness whene’er 
The friends around her had a grief to share; 

And, if in joy the kind one they forgot. 

She still rejoiced, and more was wanted not. 

Said I not truly, she was not alone. 

Though none at evening shared her clean hearth-stone? 

To some she might prosaic seem, but me 
She always charmed with daily poesy. 

Felt in her every action, never heard, 

xxiii 


Biographical Introduction 

E’en as the mate of some sweet singing-bird, 

That mute and still broods on her treasure nest, 

Her heart’s fond hope hid deep within her breast. 

In all her quiet duties, one dear thought 
Kept ever true and constant sway, nor brought 
Before the world, but garnered all the more 
For being to herself a secret store. 

Whene’er she heard of country homes, a smile 
Came brightening o’er her serious face the while; 

She knew not that it came, yet in her heart 
A hope leaped up, of. which that smile was part. 

She thought the time might come, ere yet the bowl 
Were broken at the fountain, when her soul 
Might listen to its yearnings, unreproved 
By thought of failure to the cause she loved; 

When she might leave the close and noisy street. 

And once again her childhood’s home might greet. 

It was a pleasant place, that early home! 

The brook went singing by, leaving its foam 
Among the flags and blue forget-me-not; 

And in a nook, above that sheltered spot, 

For ages stood a gnarled hawthorn-tree; 

And if you passed in spring-time, you might see 
The knotted trunk all coronal’d with flowers. 

That every breeze shook down in fragrant showers; 
The earnest bees in odorous cells did lie. 

Hymning their thanks with murmuring melody; 

The evening sun shone brightly on the green, 

And seem’d to linger on the lonely scene. 

And, if to others Mary’s early nest 

Show’d poor and homely, to her loving breast 

A charm lay hidden in the very stains 

Which time and weather left ; the old dim panes. 

The grey rough moss, the house-leek, you might see 
Were chronicled in childhood’s memory; 

And in her dreams she wandered far and wide 
Among the hills, her sister at her side — 

That sister slept beneath a grassy tomb 

Ere time had robbed her of her first sweet bloom. 

O Sleep! thou bringest back our childhood’s heart, 

Ere yet the dew exhale, the hope depart; 


XXIV 


Biographical Introduction 

Thou callest up the lost ones, sorrowed o’er 
Till sorrow’s self hath lost her tearful power; 

Thine is the fairy-land, where shadows dwell, 

Evoked in dreams by some strange hidden spell. 

But Day and Waking have their dreams, O Sleep, 

When Hope and Memory their fond watches keep; 
And such o’er Mary held supremest sway. 

When kindly labours task’d her hands all day. 
Employ’d her hands, her thoughts roam’d far and free, 
Till sense call’d down to calm reality. 

A few short weeks, and then, unbound the chains 
Which held her to another’s woes or pains. 

Farewell to dusky streets and shrouded skies, 

Her treasur’d home should bless her yearning eyes. 

And fair as in the days of childish glee 

Each grassy nook and wooded haunt should be. 

Yet ever, as one sorrow pass’d away. 

Another call’d the tender one to stay, 

And, where so late she shared the bright glad mirth. 
The phantom Grief sat cowering at the hearth. 

So days and weeks pass’d on, and grew to years, 
Unwept by Mary, save for others’ tears. 

As a fond nurse, that from the mother’s breast 
Lulls the tired infant to its quiet rest. 

First stills each sound, then lets the curtain fall 
To cast a dim and sleepy light o’er all. 

So age drew gently o’er each wearied sense 
A'deepening shade to smooth the parting hence. 

Each cherish’d accent, each familiar tone 
Fell from her daily music, one by one; 

Still her attentive looks could rightly guess 
What moving lips by sound could not express. 

O’er each loved face next came a filmy veil, 

And shine and shadow from her sight did fail. 

And, last of all, the solemn change they saw 
Depriving Death of half his regal awe; 

The mind sank down to childishness, and they, 

Relying on her counsel day by day 

(As some lone wanderer, from his home afar. 

Takes for his guide some fix’d and well known star, 

Till clouds come wafting o’er its trembling light. 


XXV 


Biographical Introduction 

And leave him wilder’ d in the pathless night), 

Sought her changed face with strange uncertain gaze. 

Still praying her to lead them through the maze. 

They pitied her lone fate, and deemed it sad; 

Yet as in early childhood she was glad; 

No sense had she of change, or loss of thought, 

With those around her no communion sought; 

Scarce knew she of her being. Fancy wild 
Had placed her in her father’s house a child; 

It was her mother sang her to her rest; 

The lark awoke her, springing from his nest; 

The bees sang cheerily the live long day. 

Lurking ’mid flowers wherever she did play; 

The Sabbath bells rang as in years gone by. 

Swelling and falling on the soft wind’s sigh; 

Her little sisters knelt with her in prayer. 

And nightly did her father’s blessing share; 

So, wrapt in glad imaginings, her life 

Stole on with all her sweet young memories rife. 

I often think (if by this mortal light 
We e’er can read another’s lot aright). 

That for her loving thought a blessing came. 

Unseen by many, clouded by a name; 

And all the outward fading from the world 
W as like the flower at night, when it has furled 
Its golden leaves, and lapped them round its heart, 

To nestle closer in its sweetest part. 

Yes! angel voices called her childhood back. 

Blotting out life with its dim sorrowy track; 

Her secret wish was ever known in heaven. 

And so in mystery was the answer given. 

In sadness many mourned her latter years. 

But blessing shone behind that mist of tears, 

And, as the child she deemed herself, she lies 
In gentle slumber, till the dead shall rise. 

From Blackwood' s Magazine, vol. xli., 
No. cclv.; Jan. 1837, pp. 48-51 
xxvi 


Biographical Introduction 

The first twelve years of Mrs. Gaskell’s married life 
passed quite uneventfully. Their first abode in Man- 
chester was in Dover Street, on the south or 
“educational” side of the town, where now stands the 
Manchester High School for Girls, in the near neighbour- 
hood of the University. In 1842 they moved to Rum- 
ford Street, not far off; and in 1850 they settled down 
at 84, Plymouth Grove. The solid old-fashioned house, 
with its hospitable portico in front and its walled garden 
on the drawing-room side, must then have been bordered 
by a wider extent of fields on the Longsight side; but 
even now it can hardly be called a town-hoUvSe. Here 
the greater part of Mrs. Gaskell’s life was spent, and 
nearly all her books were written; and here — to those 
of lis, at least, who used to write ourselves of the younger 
generation — the traditions of her gracious personality, 
and the thoughts of what is noble and pure called forth 
by the creation of her genius, will always find their 
natural centre. 

To these early married years belongs another poem — 
one of great tenderness and sweetness — which I am 
allowed to print, and which needs no comment of mine. 
In date it is a little earlier than the lines reprinted above. 
Her eldest daughter, Marianne, was born in September 
1834. 

ON VISITING THE GRAVE OF MY STILLBORN 
LITTLE GIRL. 

Sunday, July 4TH, 1836 

I made a vow within my soul, O child, 

When thou wert laid beside my weary heart, 

With marks of Death on every tender part, 

That, if in time a living infant smiled, 

Winning my ear with gentle sounds of love 
xxvii 


Biographical Introduction 

In sunshine of such joy, I still would save 
A green rest for thy memory, O Dove! 

And oft times visit thy small, nameless grave. 

Thee have I not forgot, my firstborn, thou 
Whose eyes ne’er opened to my wistful gaze, 

Whose suff’ rings stamped with pain thy little brow; 

I think of thee in these far happier days, 

And thou, my child, from thy bright heaven see 
How well I keep my faithful vow to thee. 

Mrs. Gaskell does not seem to have followed up the 
collaboration with her husband, noted above, by seeking 
to publish anything in either verse or prose, till, on the 
announcement in 1838, by William Howitt, of publishing 
what proved to be his very successful Visits to Re- 
markable Places, she offered him a short paper on 
Clopton Hall in Warwickshire. It duly appeared in 
the book, when this was published in 1840, and is 
thence reprinted in the present volume. Her personal 
intimacy with William Howitt and his kindly wife 
(Mary), who, in her Autobiography, repeatedly refers 
with evident pleasure to the fact that her husband 
William had been the means of introducing Mrs. Gaskell 
into literary life, began a year later, in the course of a 
Rhine tour. About this time Mrs. Gaskell also appears 
to have set her hand to the composition of a short story 
which may have been Lizzie Leigh, not published 
till 1851, or The Sexton's Hero, printed in 1847 in 
H owin' s Journal, where two other slight tales by 
her also appeared in this and in the following year. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Gaskell’s literary life had begun in 
earnest, and in circumstances to which fuller reference 
will be made below, but which, as possessing the deepest 
biographical interest, cannot be passed over here. In 
1844, Mr. and Mrs. Gaskell visited Festiniog, in North 
Wales, where they had spent some time on their wedding 

xxviii 


Biographical Introduction 

tour; and it was at the inn there that their eldest 
daughter caught the scarlet fever. Mrs. Gaskell took 
her and her little baby-brother, “Willie,” to Port 
Madoc, where he sickened of the fever and died. It 
was to turn her thoughts from the subject of her grief 
that, by her husband’s advice, she attempted to write 
a work of some length ; and there seems every reason for 
supposing that Mary Barton was at once begun. 
But not only does that story bear direct testimony to 
the mother’s sorrow. It is traceable also in the vision 
of the little angel-face vouchsafed when it seemed too 
late to poor Lizzie Leigh, and in the pathetic narration 
of little Walter’s death in Mr. Harrison's Confessions, 
and it haunts as a recurrent thought some of her later 
productions: Ruth, Morton Hall, and others. 

Mary Barton, as is detailed elsewhere, was finished 
in 1847, published in the following year. It es- 
tablished Mrs. Gaskell’s reputation at once, and its 
literary merits were recognised without stint, even by 
those who took objection to the conclusions which they 
supposed it to advocate on the burning public question 
of the times. Among men of letters, none more readily 
and more warmly welcomed the accession of a novice, 
who had incontestably taken her place at once among 
the foremost writers of English fiction, than Charles 
Dickens, whose popularity surpassed that of any of his 
fellows. On May i, 1849, we find Mrs. Gaskell mentioned 
as dining with him, in a company including Carlyle and 
Thackeray, to commemorate the publication of the 
first number of David Copper-field; and when, early 
in the following year, he was projecting Household 
Worlds, he invited her co-operation in the most flat- 
tering terms. It is pleasant and honourable to both 
writers, that a connection, based upon sincere goodwill 


XXIX 


Biographical Introduction 

and sympathy, should have been so rapidly established 
between them, and should have established itself so 
firmly. Mrs. Gaskell, in Cranford and elsewhere, 
returned the spontaneous kindness of Dickens by 
straightforward tributes of genuine admiration; and he 
was afterwards a welcome guest at Plymouth Grove. 
Here and there in her earlier writings, she may have 
shown that, like so many of their contemporaries, and 
those in particular who were associated with him in his 
editorial capacity, she was in some measure under the 
spell of his manner. The potency of that spell no later 
generation can, perhaps, quite sufficiently understand. 
But her method of workmanship — her treatment of 
character in particular — in her more sustained efforts, 
at all events, and in her later masterpieces more es- 
pecially, bore little resemblance to his; while the un- 
affected simplicity of her style, due to an innate purity 
of taste and to a rare unconsciousness of literary models, 
was sure to avoid any imitation of the mannerism into 
which he so easily fell. It is not suggested, on the other 
side, that Dickens was influenced by the younger writer. 
The subject of Hard Times has no doubt certain 
affinities with that of Mary Barton; and there is an 
undeniable resemblance between certain of the char- 
acters in the same story by Dickens, and Ruth, which 
preceded it by a year in the date of publication. With 
Thackeray, on the other hand, though his literary per- 
ception was far too fine not to recognise readily the 
qualities of her genius, Mrs. Gaskell was, in her own 
words, “not at her ease”; and with him her relations as 
a writer were never intimate. 

The contributions by Mrs. Gaskell to Household 
Words during the years 1850-6 were numerous, and a 
few others followed in 1858, and to the cognate All 


XXX 


Biographical Introduction 

the Year Round in 1859, 1861, and 1863. The earliest 
and most continuous series included, besides Cran- 
ford, which appeared occasionally from December, 
1851, to May, 1853, and North and South, which ran 
from September, 1854, to January, 1855, the pathetic 
tale of Lizzie Leigh, the powerful character-study 
of The Heart of John Middleton, and the water- 
colours, if I may so call them, which already have some 
of the delicate charm of Mrs. Gaskell’s later manner, of 
Morton Hall and My French Master. The weird 
Old Nurse's Story (which, together with the still 
earlier Well of Pen Morfa, illustrates that inclination 
to allow her mind to hover on the borders of the super- 
natural, in which, like many persons of excellent sense, 
she occasionally indulged) appeared in one of those 
Christmas numbers of Charles Dickens’s journal, to 
which we used to look forward in those days of happy 
trustfulness between writers and readers, and The 
Squire's Story — a true tale of Knutsford Heath — in 
another. Of the remainder of these contributions, which 
it is impossible to compare with one another without 
being struck by the freshness of treatment applied to a 
remarkable variety of subjects — so excellent a thing it is 
for a writer not to have written himself out — each will 
receive notice in its place. 

In 1850, the year in which the series began, Mrs. 
Gaskell had also published her second larger story. The 
Moorland Cottage, with illustrations by Birket Foster. 
Although in every sense unpretending, the homely tale 
is notable among her works, as first showing, more 
especially in the sweet, shy, girlish figure of Maggie 
Browne and her rough, tender old servant Nancy, traces 
of that more subtle vein of humour in which Mrs. 
Gaskell was afterwards to excel. 


xxxl 


Biographical Introduction 

Curiously enough, it was in this very year that her 
friendship — a memorable one in the history of English 
literature — began with a writer who was to offer a quite 
new solution to the question, almost as old in literature 
as it is in life, What is a heroine? In the course of a 
stay during August, 1850, in Westmoreland, where in 
the previous year Crabb Robinson had intrdouced Mr. 
and Mrs. Gaskell to Wordsworth, they paid a visit to 
Sir James Kay Shuttle worth, at his house in the Lakes, 
to which he afterwards gave some literary celebrity; 
and here it was that Mrs. Gaskell made the acquaintance 
of Charlotte Bronte, of whose personality and its char- 
acteristic surroundings her friend’s biography remains an 
imperishable monument. Miss Bronte visited Mrs. 
Gaskell at Manchester, in 1851, and again in 1853; 
and the hostess became truly fond of, and “very sorry 
for,” her guest. On her side the visitor was charmed 
by the brightness of a home where daughters were 
growing up in whom, especially in the youngest, she 
recognised a resemblance to their mother in something 
more than outward features. In the autumn of 1853 
Mrs. Gaskell returned Miss Bronte’s visit at Haworth; 
and she was present with her husband at the wedding 
of Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls in June, 1854 — to be followed 
by the death of the latter only nine months afterwards. 

The marked contrasts of temperament and mental 
idiosyncrasy between these two gifted women had only 
strengthened a friendship as sincere, and as free from the 
faintest shade of jealousy, as any that is recorded in 
literary biography. Nothing could have better illus- 
trated the fallibility of critical guessing than the rumour, 
mentioned by Mary Howitt, that a story called The 
Miner's Daughter, which appeared in Household 
Words in the spring of 1850, was “either by Currer 


XX XU 


Biographical Introduction 

Bell or by Mrs. Gaksell.” It happened to be by neither, 
but could there have been two authoresses of whom it 
would have been more difficult to mistake the one for 
the other Yet I have sometimes thought that a certain 
increase of freedom in the handling both of characters 
and situations becomes observable in Mrs. Gaskell from 
North and South onwards, and that for the gain in 
strength which this brought with it she was uncon- 
sciously in some measure indebted to the authoress of 
Shirley, as she afterwards was to the authoress of 
The Mill on the Floss. 

Curiously enough — and no incident could have more 
pleasantly attested the warmth of their friendship — at 
the beginning of 1853 Miss Bronte agreed to defer for a 
few weeks the publication of Villette, in order to 
avoid comparisons with Mrs. Gaskell’s second im- 
portant novel, Ruth, which made its appearance at 
this time. This story is still in the earlier and intenser 
manner of Mary Barton, and less relieved than its 
predecessor by the humour to which Mrs. Gaskell was so 
soon afterwards, in Cranford, to give free play; it 
seems to date from a time in which the growth of ex- 
perience was making her acquainted with the darker 
as well as with the brighter sides of life, and in which 
she learnt much from personal intercourse with such 
men as Travers Madge, the home missionary, and 
Thomas Wright, the prison reformer. On the other 
hand, the story itself has a much deeper psychological 
interest than Mary Barton, and the style, though 
still wanting in the more delicate charm and humorous 
ripple, as of a sunny sea, which captivate us in the 
writer’s later works, is unmistakably superior to that of 
her first book. 

If the authoress of Ruth did not escape censuro 

xxxiii 


Biographical Introduction 

for certain shortcomings which a vigilant — but I do not 
think in this instance unjust — literary censorship had 
detected in the story, the memm mel of the Cranford 
series, which was brought to a close and republished in 
May and June of the same year, 1853, could have no 
effect but that of adding to the sum of general happiness. 
Early in 1855 North and South was brought to a close 
in Household Words; and soon afterwards this 
novel was republished. Dickens was warm in his 
congratulations to Mrs. Gaskell “on the vigorous and 
powerful accomplishment of an anxious labour;'’ and 
no words of praise could have been more happily chosen 
or more directly deserved. A word will be said else- 
where as to the literary merits of the book, which are 
those of a sense of strength and of self-possession proving 
the writer to have become fully conscious of her great 
powers, and capable of using them with the perfection 
of ease. Equally notable are the advance in impar- 
tiality of judgment and maturity of reflexion which the 
writer has achieved, as her experience had widened and 
her interest in political and social problems deepened. 
She had, as already noted, become personally acquainted 
with philanthropists of experience and ability. More- 
over, she had moved about among the working-classes, 
often in the company of her friend Susanna Winkworth, 
a woman of deeply human spirit as well as of genuine 
learning, and one of three sisters whose intimacy counted 
for much in the life of Mrs. Gaskell and her family. 
(One of them, Catharine, had learnt her love of literature, 
and of German hymnology in particular, from Mr. 
Gaskell.) She had lost no opportunity of widening her 
outlook, had listened to discussions at workmen’s clubs, 
and made herself the confidante of many a poor girl. 
On the pther hand, though she did not wish to make 


XXXIV 


Biographical Introduction 

any amende to the masters for Mary Barton, she may 
fairly be supposed to have desired to supplement the 
picture there drawn of their relations towards the men, 
and to mark the recognition of the spirit that was at 
work in the best of a class without whom England would 
not be what it is. No “revision of judgment” was ever 
more generously conceived by an author, or carried out 
with more dignity. 

L Her next literary achievement, the Life of Charlotte 
Bronte, is not included in the present Edition of her 
works, as it has already found its natural place in the 
volume introductory to Charlotte Bronte's writings. 
It was undertaken at the urgent request of Mr. Bronte, 
who survived his daughter; and all through the year 
1856 Mrs. Gaskell was employed upon the biography, giv- 
ing herself up to the work with the utmost assiduity, and 
sparing no pains to ensure accuracy in her statements 
and descriptions. Then she spent a fortnight at Brus- 
sels in careful investigations, to which nothing of moment 
has been subsequently added. When, in the spring of 
1857, the book was at last ready for publication, Mrs. 
Gaskell, in accordance with a habit which, like other 
eminent writers after her, she was coming to form, with- 
drew from the buzz of criticism, travelling with two of 
her daughters to Romm where they were the guests of 
Mr. W. W. Story. She was a great admirer of his 
inimitable Roha di Roma papers, which two years 
later she was at great pains to introduce to the notice of 
Thackeray as editor of the Cornhill Magazine. 

This time, however, her peace was broken by a pro- 
test which gave her much pain, and which, as she 
speedily recognised, there was but one way of meeting. 
In a passage of the original Edition of the Life, she 
had reproduced a supposed statement of facts, which 

XXXV 


Biographical Introduction 

had been explicitly made to her by Miss Bronte herself, 
and on the authenticity of which she as a matter of 
course placed absolute reliance. The truth of the 
statement was denied by the persons implicated; and 
the result was a retraction in The Times, and the 
withdrawal from circulation of all the unsold copies of 
the first Edition of the biography. Concerning certain 
other statements contained in it the authoress was much 
harassed by disclaimers and corrections, to which she 
endeavoured to do justice in the later Edition; and in 
the end she was obliged, as other biographers have been 
before her, to decline further personal correspondence 
with regard to the book. The all but unparalleled 
interest excited in Charlotte Bronte and her sisters, 
and in everything that concerns them, their family or 
their home, has led to a microscopic investigation of 
every detail connected with them; and this has no 
doubt brought to light some additions that might be 
made to Mrs. Gaskell’s narrative, and possibly some 
slight rectifications of which this or that statement of 
hers may be susceptible. But the substantial accuracy 
of the picture drawn by Mrs. Gaskell of her heroine’s 
life and character, and of the influences exercised upon 
them by her personal and local surroundings has not 
been successfully impugned; nor should it be forgotten 
that it was she who not only “discovered” Haworth, 
but who has told, once for all, the story of the Bronte 
sisters, now itself a permanent part of our literature. 
For as to Mrs. Gaskell’s literary skill and power as a 
biographer there cannot be two opinions, any more 
than as to her absolute uprightness of intention in this 
capacity. She expressly disclaimed having made any 
attempt at psychological analysis; but she was signally 
and enduringly successful in her endeavour to bring before 

xxxvi 


Biographical Introduction 

her readers the picture of a very peculiar character and 
altogether original mind. The story of an unknown life 
had been so told that, in the words of the great French 
scholar Ampere, it impressed the reader “like a Greek 
tragedy. ” 

There seems no doubt that the strictures, rightly or 
wrongly, passed upon passages of her Life of Charlotte 
Bronte gave rise in Mrs. Gaskell to a temporary dis- 
taste for more continuous writing. During the next 
five or six years she published nothing of importance, 
though she sent occasional papers to English and Amer- 
ican magazines — among the former to the Cornhill 
Magazine, which her last three stories were so appro- 
priately to adorn. Of her life in these years there is 
little else to tell, except that it continued its usual 
course of active intellectual exertion, social kindliness, 
and domestic happiness. She never forgot old friends, 
though constantly making new ones, among whom there 
were many beginners in the art in which she had achieved 
fame. To these she was always ready to give help and 
advice. In all her home-relations she showed an un- 
surpassable tenderness and sweetness. She possessed, 
too, happily for her comfort and that of her house, a 
peculiar tact for training her servants. One of these, 
Hearn the nurse, who was devoted to Mrs. Gaskell and 
her daughters, lived with them for fifty years at Plymouth 
Grove, and died there in an honoured old age. Among 
Mrs. Gaskell’s special intimates at Manchester were, as 
already mentioned, the three Miss Winkworths — 
Susanna, Catharine, and Emily (afterwards Mrs. Shaen) 
— the Sidney Potters, the Darbishires, and among 
younger associates the Henry Roscoes and one or two 
others whose friendship I was afterwards fortunate 
enough to enjoy at “Drumble. ” For myself, I cannot 

xxxvii 


Biographical Introduction 

even say of her ''vidi tantmn;'' though I am allowed not 
to account myself a stranger in her house. Her celebrity 
had of course greatly enlarged her friends both in London 
and in the country. Among the former she had a par- 
ticularly warm regard for the Hensleigh Wedgwoods, of 
whose daughters, Julia and Effie, she was very fond, 
the Stanleys, and the George Smiths. Her corre- 
spondence with Mr. Smith, which I have been allowed 
to see, is one of the gayest ever carried on between 
author and publisher, and nothing could be more 
pleasant than the reminiscences with which Mrs. Smith 
has favoured me of Mrs. Gaskell’s animation of manner 
and depth of feeling. Another friend whose hospitality 
— none the less cordial because so catholic — -was re- 
turned by the Gaskells at Manchester, was the late 
Lord Houghton, whom I very well remember telling 
me that their house made that city a quite possible 
place of residence for persons of literary tastes. But 
to enumerate the friends and admirers whom she found 
in London would be a task beyond my powers; not 
only was Thackeray among the number of both, but 
his eldest daughter (then a young girl) , who with some- 
thing of his own power combines the purely feminine 
grace which few of our later authoresses have shared 
with Mrs. Gaskell, introduced to his notice one of her 
most charming creations. It is not wonderful that both 
in London and at home there should have descended on 
her a flow of continental and, still more copiously, of 
American admirers of her genius — the latter, as I will 
repeat when speaking of the book in particular, being, 
above all, eager to pay their tribute of gratitude to the 
authoress of Cranford, In the autumn of 1854, 
during a delightful visit which she and her daughter 
Marianne paid to Mrs. Salis Schwabe in Paris, Mrs. 


XXXVlll 


Biographical Introduction 

Gaskell first met Madame Mohl ; and this acquaintance 
soon ripened into the closest friendship, which proved 
to her a source of great pleasure, and a constant stimulus 
in her literary work. Madame Mohl was the wife of 
the celebrated orientalist, Julius Mohl, who, though a 
German, long resided in Paris for the prosecution of his 
studies, and became ultimately Professor of Persian at 
the College de France. She was an Englishwoman 
by birth (her maiden name was Mary Clarke) ; but she 
was one of those cosmopolitans whose destiny in former 
days was to preside over a Paris salon — whether great or 
small, whether political of literary; and there can be 
no doubt but that she was equal to her destiny. It 
is to her that the sprightly paper entitled Company 
Manners seems to allude. Mrs. Gaskell repeatedly 
stayed in her friend's house in the classic Rue du Bac 
at Paris; and it was in Madame Mohl's historic salon, 
“standing up before the mantelpiece which she used 
as a desk,” that she wrote part of her last story, in 
the opening of which this excellent critic took the most 
admiring interest. 

In 1862-3 a time of trouble came over Manchester 
and South-west Lancashire in general, which called forth 
one of the most notable, and certainly one of the best- 
organised efforts of goodwill and charity which this 
country has ever seen. In the long struggle between 
masters and men, the times of the Lancashire Cotton 
Famine, due to the outbreak and continuance of the 
American Civil War, brought about a protracted truce, 
in which the kindly feelings inspired by the self-sacri- 
ficing efforts of many leading employers of manufactur- 
ing labour cannot but have counted for much. Mrs. 
Gaskell, whose name had so good a sound among the 
Lancashire working-classes that we hear of an Oldham 


XXXIX 


Biographical Introduction 

man regularly bringing his children to gaze upon the 
house in Plymouth Grove where dwelt the authoress of 
Mary Barton, gave many proofs in these times of 
trouble of her readiness to help suffering in every way 
in her power. For a time she became quite absorbed 
in the relief problem which was brought so close home 
to her at Manchester. “I wish,” she writes from 
Eastbourne, in October, 1862, to Mr. George Smith, 
North and South would make friends, and let us 
have cotton, and then our poor people would get work,_ 
and then you should have as many novels as you liked 
to take, and we should not be killed with ‘ Poor on the 
Brain,’ as I expect we shall before the winter is over. 
We were really glad before leaving home to check each 
other in talking of the one absorbing topic, which was 
literally haunting us in our sleep, as well as being the 
first thoughts in wakening and the last at night. ” She 
took a conspicuous part in organising and superintending, 
at times for six or seven hours a day, a method of relief — 
sewing-rooms — which had occurred to her before it 
came to be largely adopted; she took a very active 
interest in the movement for providing dinners for the 
poor; and, gifted as she was with the faculty, not shared 
by us all, for quickly gaining the confidence of others, 
she made herself the personal friend of many a poor and 
distressed household. 

Genius works in its own fashion; and though the 
“see-saw” between real and imagined sorrow broke her 
nightly rest, she cannot but have found some relief in 
turning not only to a fresh scene but to as different as 
possible a sphere of action and emotion. Even the date 
of her next story, Sylvia's Lovers, which is second 
to very few of her stories in depth of human interest, 
and the earlier portions of which are full of imaginative 

xl 


Biographical Introduction 

chann, is laid as far back as the beginning of the nine- 
teenth century — a very unusual thing for her. The 
locality of the tale, thinly disguised under the name 
of Monkshaven, is Whitby, to which Mrs. Gaskell had 
paid a visit in order to study the character of the town, 
which half a century of improvements have for better 
or worse been unable quite to take away, and to learn 
something of the history of the peculiar institution 
from which it suffered in the evil days of the French war. 
Sylvia's Lovers appeared early in 1863, the summer 
of which year Mrs. Gaskell spent with her daughters 
in Rome and Florence. In the same year was begun 
in the Cornhill Magazine the exquisite prose idyll 
of Cousin Phillis y which was not published as a 
complete story till November, 1865. M. E. D. Forgues, 
who had previously published a French translation of 
Sylvia's Lover Sy brought out one of Cousin Phillis y 
and some of Mrs. Gaskell’s minor tales, with a biograph- 
ical notice by Madame Louise S. Belloc. None have 
more directly appealed to the sympathies of the country- 
men and countrywomen of Georges Sand — who personally 
cherished a most generous admiration for Mrs. Gaskell’ s 
writings — than Cousin PhilliSy an artistically perfect 
composition, and one of the gems of English imagi- 
native prose. 

In these years Mrs. Gaskell must have been in the full 
possession, not only of her great gifts and powers, but of 
that sense of life, in all its variety of charms and humours, 
which was an essential part of her genius. Here is a 
typical extract from a summer holiday letter written, 
probably at a rather earlier date, to Mr. George Smith 
from “Auchencairn, by {i.e. twenty-two miles off) 
Dumfries, N.B. ” 

If ingratitude is virtuous I am praiseworthy! . . You 
xli 


Biographical Introduction 

never, no never sent a more acceptable present than ‘Cousin 
Stella’ and ‘The Fool of Quality,’ and that irrespective of their 
several merits. But books are books here — where potatoes 
have to be sent from Castle Douglas, nine miles off — when we 
are uncertain what King or Queen reigns in England, — when we 
are far away from newspapers or railways or shops, or any sign 
of the world ; when we go to bed by daylight, and get up because 
the cocks crow and cows low to be milked, and we can’t sleep 
any longer. Thanks many for your kind thought of us. I am 
sorry to say Meta lies at this present moment fast asleep with 
‘Cousin Stella’ in her hand, but that is the effect of bathing and 
an eight mile walk; not of the book itself. I know and I like 
‘The Fool of Quality’ of old. I was brought up by (uncles old) 
and aunts, who had all old books, and very few new ones; and 
I used to delight in the ‘The Fool of Quality’ and have hardly 
read it since. I mean to be so busy here, but I am, at present 
continuously tempted out of doors. I can hardly believe that 
we were in London two days ago. Oh! I will so try and write 
you a good novel, as good as a great nosegay of honeysuckle 
just under my nose at present. . . . 

My girls send you all manner of pretty messages. Please 
write to us. An old man whistles at the end of the field if he 
has any letters for us, and some one races down for them, hold- 
ing them up in triumph if there are many. But suppose 
the day should arrive when there is no whistle! Heaven and 
Mr. Smith avert that evil time Besides we] know nothing out 
here. 

Mrs. Gaskell’s occasional productions were rare during 
what were to be the closing years of her life, though her 
mental activity was by no means, as that of some of 
our chief novelists has been, absorbed by her works of 
fiction. In the course of 1865, inspired perhaps by the 
example of Madame Mohl’s Essay on Madame Re- 
camier, she entertained, or resumed, the idea of 
writing a life of Madame de S<^vigne, and carried on 
some preliminary researches on the subject, both at 
Paris and in Britanny, which she and her daughter 
Meta had begun as early as 1862. They were ac- 


Biographical Introduction 

companied on this journey by Miss Isabel Thomson, 
afterwards Mrs. William Sidgwick, whose friendship, 
together with that of her sister. Lady Brodie, was one 
of the great pleasures of Mrs. Gaskell’s later years. 
She had always taken a warm interest in French history 
and literature, as the list of her occasional papers would 
suffice to show; and her sensitive humour and in some 
respects incomparable delicacy of touch have enabled 
her to draw what no English hand has as yet drawn 
with conspicuous success, the literary as well as the 
personal portrait of the most feminine of the great 
writers of France. But the experiment was not to be 
i^ade. 

last story, Wives and Daughters, which had 
begun to appear in the Cornhill Magazine in August, 
1864, was still unfinished when the pen dropped from 
her hand. Enough, however, of the story had been 
written by her for it to be carried on in the magazine till 
the January number of 1866, when its conclusion, which 
was shrouded by no mystery, was with admirable taste 
supplied by sympathetic conjecture. There are few 
other instances — that of R. L. Stevenson’s Weir of 
Hermiston is perhaps one — in which the last imagi- 
native work of a great writer, though unfinished, 
has by universal consent been classed among the best of 
his or her books. In Wives and Daughters, Mrs. 
Gaskell’s later manner asserts itself with genial ampli- 
tude and with irresistible grace and ease, ranging from 
the most charming playfulness of humour to a pathos 
which softens, subdues, and endears. Were it a frag- 
ment, it would be invaluable for its beauty; but, 
complete as it is to all intents and purposes, it can hardly 
be refused recognition as Mrs. Gaskell’s masterpiece. 

Her strength had begun to fail as she neared the end 


Biographical Introduction 

of her task; but her exertions had never relaxed. In 
March, 1865, she had paid a visit to Madame Mohl, in 
Paris, but broke down during her stay, of which she 
spent the last fortnight indoors. On her return in 
April she was too ill to see her friends, and in a letter 
to Mr. George Smith exclaimed, “Oh, for a house in 
the country!” By June she had pledged herself to pur- 
chase a place called The Lawn, Holyboume, near Alton, 
in Hampshire, which she intended to present as a sur- 
prise to her husband. 

It was here that on Sunday, November 12, 1865, 
the end came very suddenly, and that she was carried 
away by disease of the heart, according to her epitaph, 
“without a moment’s warning.” She was at the time 
conversing with her daughters, three of whom were 
around her, in a country house at Holyboume, near 
Alton, in Hampshire, which she had purchased with the 
proceeds of her last novel, and she was buried in the little 
sloping graveyard of Brook Street Chapel at Knutsford, 
which had been so familiar to her girlhood ; and here her 
husband was in 1884 laid by her side. A cross, with the 
dates of their births and deaths, marks their resting- 
place; but in the Cross Street Unitarian Chapel at Man- 
chester they are commemorated by mural inscriptions, of 
which that to Mrs. Gaskell is from her husband’s hand. 

Mrs. Gaskell had at one time been very beautiful; 
she was not tall, but her head must have been a re- 
markably fine one, and her hand was always thought 
perfect. The best of the portraits preserved of her is 
that by George Richmond; of the beautiful cast taken 
of her in her youth mention has already been made; 
on the front of the post-office at Knutsford there is a 
bas-relief in bronze, which is not unsuccessful in showing 
the expression of her face in her last years. 

xliv 


Biographical Introduction 

The refinement of her manners was noticed by all who 
became acquainted with her, and must have had a 
singular charm, united as it was to a natural vivacity 
that made her the life and soul of every circle in which 
she moved. She had great conversational gifts, in- 
cluding, as could hardly have been otherwise, much 
natural humour and fun; and the letters in her Life 
of Charlotte Bronte would of themselves show her to 
have been a most delightful correspondent. There 
was probably just enough impatience in her disposition 
to invest with an additional charm her cheerful accept- 
ance of the rather uniform conditions of existence that 
had fallen to her lot. But the Sparta which she had 
found was at least a city without walls, and she found 
it an easy conquest. Few great towns, in England 
or elsewhere, are so especially associated with a great 
literary name. 

Attracted, like all natures in which deep feeling is 
accompanied by a spontaneous flow of humour, she never 
dwelt in extremes. In dealing with those social prob- 
lems with which she was brought face to face, and which 
became one of the chief interests of her life, personal 
as well as literary, she schooled herself into a sustained 
moral effort — perhaps as difficult a one as any to which 
a generous woman’s heart can school itself — to be just. 
With regard neither to these nor to other public ques- 
tions was she much inclined to personal intervention, 
except in the blessed byways of beneficence; but she 
did not shrink from placing her name at the service of 
a cause which she deemed just; thus it appeared, in 
1856, at the foot of a petition as to the property of 
married women, side by side with those of Elizabeth 
Barrett Browning, Mary Howitt, and Anna Jameson. 

Though reasonableness and a lucidity of mind which 
xlv 


Biographical Introduction 

mirrored itself in a style of perfect clearness were among 
her most unfailing characteristics as a writer, yet her 
imagination was unmistakably attracted by whatever 
bordered on, or partook of, the supernatural. In fact, 
like Miss Matty in Cranford, Mrs. Gaskell had “rather 
a leaning to ghosts. ” Her reputation as a teller of 
ghost-stories extended beyond the immediate circle 
of her home life; and in her earlier as well as in her 
later writings — from the Old Nurse's Story of the 
haunted hall by the Westmoreland wolds to the harrow- 
ing tale of The Poor Clare in Round the Sofa — she 
subjects her readers to the same spell. But these were 
fancies only, to which she allowed no place in her con- 
ception of life, or in the expression which that conception 
found in her principal works. 

The present occasion would hardly be suitable for 
an attempt, such as the time has surely come for making, 
to determine Mrs. Gaskell’s permanent position in 
English literature. Any attempt of the kind must 
necessarily be affected by the judgment that is formed 
of a notable movement in the history of English prose 
fiction which was contemporary with the earlier half 
of her career as a novelist, and in which she took a very 
prominent part. For while it admits of no dispute 
that this movement proved a beneficent one by stirring 
to higher activities or to nobler conceptions of duty 
what is regarded by some as the comfortable optimism 
of the early Victorian age, it may remain open to ques- 
tion whether Thackeray’s satire was out of place, that 
in those days only novelists who wrote with a purpose 
were “good for anything.” In a work of remarkable 
originality and force, *M. Louis Cazamian has described 
this movement, to which he assigned the wide limits 
* Le Roman Social en Angleterre, 1904. 
xlvi 


Biographical Introduction 

of 1830-50, as that of a sentimental and conservative 
“interventionism” — an appeal, with the aid of human 
or religious emotions, to the idea of a community of 
social interests. Its purpose, according to this critic, 
was to purify English life by philanthropy; to pacify 
and reconcile the spirit of revolt from amidst terrible 
suffering; to preserve the foundations of a public 
order which was unduly threatened; and at the same 
time to overthrow a dogmatism by which a system of 
social passivity complacently justified itself. In this 
movement Dickens, Disraeli, and Kingsley — a strangely 
assorted triad — were among the foremost fighters ; 
and Mrs. Gaskell too, as the authoress of Mary Barton, 
a tale of the troubled forties, Ruth, and North 
and South, in which the echoes of the great strike of 
1852 are still audible, took a share in the struggle. It 
was, as they would have granted to Thackeray, a struggle 
with a purpose — but the purpose was often complicated, 
and it was often only partially self-confessed. But it 
amounted to a protest of human nature against sci- 
entific formulae which “neglected friction”; to a pro- 
test of idealism against the implied assumption of a 
best of all possible worlds, certain, if allowed time, 
to find its balance again; and also, in Mrs. Gaskell at 
all events, to a protest on behalf of that wide and con- 
stant Christian sympathy which a profession and 
practice, seemingly sufficient for so many convinced 
believers, is content to ignore. 

In this protest Mrs. Gaskell had participated, without 
taking much thought of literary name and fame; and 
these had come to her unasked. But, of course, the 
qualities which had secured it had been those of her 
own genius; nor was it probable that when she had 
become conscious of its strength she should not be 

xlvii 


Biographical Introduction 

impelled to exert them in full creative freedom, un- 
fettered by the desire of bringing home to her readers 
lessons however needful, or serving purposes however 
lofty. Already in her earlier works she had made it 
clear that, as with all true artists, so with her, the 
creative force was sovereign, and that her supreme 
power, as well as her supreme charm, lay in her being 
at all times true to herself. Nature had gifted her with 
a kindly humour to which all extravagances of passion, 
all the eccentricities of folly, were alien even in this 
literary reflection or presentment ; but also with a 
quick and penetrating intelligence which saw the world 
and the men and women who form it clearly and com- 
pletely; to these was added a generous heart which 
beat in sympathy with human joy and sorrow, and a 
pure and lofty spirit in natural harmony with the laws 
which forbid whatsoever is harsh, or garish, or tawdry, 
or mean, and with those other laws of which Divine 
Love is the source and the informing principle. When 
Mrs. Gaskell had become conscious that if true to her- 
self, to her own ways of looking at men and things, 
to the sympathies and the hopes with which life inspired 
her, she had but to put pen to paper, she found what it 
has been usual to call her later manner — ^the manner 
of which Cranford offered the first adequate illus- 
tration, and of which Cousin Philhs and Wives and 
Daughters represent the consummation. 

Mrs. Gaskell never deviated into mannerisms of her 
own, or into the imitation of other writers. Except 
in so far as the choice of theme and the bent of purpose 
which marked some of her earlier works, and which will 
be discussed in connexion with these, she belongs to no 
group or school in the history of our literature; and 
even at this stage she copied no model — neither, as is 

xlvili 



A COURT IN HULME, MANCHESTER. 
From a drawing by William Canning 


4 









’ - . 


.•ff 




h" * 




•jr » 




jm i 


I 




■ ^■fcauHr'S 


’ ‘^* 3 ! 

- F-* ’'-‘1 

L *«r ■ « ’I • "'Wi 


• I 


\*: 






( 





Jr-' j 


■ f. 


fc ■ * 


Vi 


\ ^ -‘St 

,4 

Pwl. ’ '' ► ^ 




C* 


>, 












.» » 


ij. 






-J - ' ^ 1 ^/ * llfi;!^ 

r .nt! -. ‘If ■a-^ ^ ^ * ' ■• ‘ . 

' k'rji»s»'. ’j; _,;,£rfct4j.; -■ V 

^ ' ■-' 2 « 4 Ai:jL ® i ' 

'.,^v ‘Sitf 


>rrr : v* - -II * >1 
SBI.i ' . . ■. -v V j^'-^' • 




'a 


&-• - 

M "1 ■■■illB^'Jij 

. , » 


It 4 


; r 




* ■ ■ ■ ^ 


.-if 



■», 


... ■*^ » ■i*i. ■-• *. 


K 


y ^ 



Biographical Introduction 

virtually certain, Disraeli on the one hand, nor the 
homelier products of Mrs. Trollope on the other. She 
owed something to Crabbe, but not as a literary artist. 
The influence of Dickens was, as I have said, strong 
upon her during a considerable part of her literary life, 
but she never succumbed to it, and it was only by a 
quite exceptional accident that she may once or twice 
have fallen into one of his tricks of style. For the rest, 
she was too absolutely free from literary affectations of 
any kind to be guilty even of the venial sin of un- 
conscious plagiarism — unless Charley Jones, when en- 
couraging Mary Barton in her request by the reflexion, 
“We are but where we were, if we fail,” is to be held 
to have borrowed from Lady Macbeth. 

The “century of praise” which it would not be diffi- 
cult to compose from the tributes, public and private, 
paid to the genius of Mrs. Gaskell by eminent men and 
women of her own generation, need hardly be invoked 
by its successors, to whom her writings still speak. 
Such a list would include among other eulogies, those of 
Carlyle and Ruskin, of Dickens, who called her his 
“Scheherazade,” and of Thackeray, of Charles Kingsley, 
and of Matthew Arnold, of whom his sister, the late 
Mrs. W. E. Forster, drew a picture in his own happy 
manner, “stretched at full length on a sofa, reading a 
Christmas tale of Mrs. Gaskell, which moves him to 
tears, and the tears to complacent admiration of his 
own sensibility. ” Lord Houghton, John Forster, George 
Henry Lewes, Tom Taylor, were among her declared 
admirers; to whom should be added among statesmen, 
Cobden and the late Duke of Argyll. Among Mrs. 
Gaskell’s female fellow- writers, Charlotte Bronte and 
George Eliot, Harriet Martineau, and Mrs. Beecher Stowe 
(jades non omnibus una) were at least alike to each 

xlix 


Biographical Introduction 

other in their warm admiration of her. To these names 
should be added that of one whose praise came near 
home to Mrs. Gaskelhs heart — Mrs. Stanley, the mother 
of Dean Stanley. Among French lovers of her genius 
Ampere has already been mentioned; and with him 
should be named Guizot and Jules Simon. But I may 
end with the words of an illustrious writer who, to my 
mind, shared with two Englishwomen a prerogative 
claim to judge the claims of their fellow-authoress. 

Georges Sand, the great French novelist, whose later 
works, including her autobiography, appear to me in 
certain ways — above all in their large-heartedness — to 
resemble Mrs. Gaskell’s later writings, only a few months 
before her death observed to Lord Houghton: “Mrs. 
Gaskell has done what neither I nor other female writers 
in France can accomplish: she has written novels which 
excite the deepest interest in men of the world, and yet 
which every girl will be the better for reading. “ Though 
this is high praise, it is not from this point of view that 
I should primarily, at least, care to compare her with 
either Charlotte Bronte or George Eliot, the two great 
English authoresses of whom she was the contemporary, 
and, though not in the same degree in each case, the 
friend. If she lacks the intense individuality of her 
earlier, and the wide intellectual and moral horizon, of her 
later fellow- writer, she is the equal of both the one and 
the other in her power of understanding and reproducing 
the varieties of human character within the range of 
her observation. And a distinctive quality of her own — • 
it may be called a literary quality, because alike in her 
graver and in her gayer moods she was able to give 
literary expression to it — is her sweet serenity of soul. 

A. W. W. 

April, 1906. 

1 


INTRODUCTION TO “MARY BAR- 
TON,” ETC. 


In the year 1844 Mrs. Gaskell, as has already been 
mentioned in the preceding Biographical Introduction, 
had passed through an experience of which the recol- 
lection was never to abandon her. Traceable in many 
passages of her works, it never found a more direct 
expression than in the pathetic reference in Mary 
Barton to the land of dreams — “that land where 
alone I may see, while yet I tarry here, the sweet looks 
of my dear child.” No further clue is needed to the 
significance of the stanza from Uhland’s beautiful 
poem which she prefixed to the original edition of the 
novel in 1848, and of which the following version may 
perhaps be accepted: — 

“Take, good ferryman, I pray, 

Take a triple fare to-day: 

The twain who with me touched the strand 
Were visitants from spirit-land. ” 

Mr. Gaskell had suggested to his wife, sorrowing for 
the loss of their beloved little boy, that to divert her 
mind from this absorbing grief, she should engage in 
some longer piece of writing. It has been seen that 
after the publication, as early as January, 1837, of 
the notable poem (Sketches among the Poor, No. i,) 
jointly composed by her husband and herself, she had, 
with the exception of one short published paper and a 
stray poem or two, put no written production of hers 
into a definite shape. Whether to one or more of her 
shorter tales or sketches she had already set a tentative 
hand, it is impossible to determine. But the impression 
is not easily resisted that Lizzie Leigh, not pub- 

li 


Introduction 


lished till 1850, was a first sketch, rather than a repro- 
duction, of one of the most pathetic episodes in Mary 
Barton^ and thus Mrs. Gaskell’s earliest literary utter- 
ance of that infinite pity for the fallen which was always 
near to her heart. 

Still, her natural inclination to writing had already 
shown itself to be such as to explain both her husband’s 
advice and her ready adoption of it. Nor is there 
any particular reason for quarrelling with the assertion 
of the excellent Mary Howitt in her Autobiography, 
that her husband had been so pleased by Clopton 
Hall as to urge Mrs. Gaskell “to use her pen for the 
public benefit.” This, she continues, led to the pro- 
duction of the beautiful story of Mary Barton, the 
first volume of which was sent in MS. to William Howitt, 
as the result of his advice. “We were both delighted 
with it, and a few months later Mrs. Gaskell came up 
to London, and to our house, with the work completed.^’ 
This kindly cackling, to be sure, does not altogether 
agree, though it may not be absolutely irreconcilable, 
with the account given by Mrs. Gaskell herself. Part, 
at least, of the story was probably written at Silverdale, 
near Grange-over-Sands, always a favourite retreat of 
herself and her family; and this would explain the 
exquisite personal touch by which she contrasts Mary 
Barton’s nocturnal loneliness, when at the height of 
her trouble, among the hard, square houses of the 
Manchester court with the gentle sympathetic calm of 
“the lovely night in the country in which I am now 
writing. ” 

After the work had been brought to a close in the 
way in which the authoress had first intended to finish 
it, she offered it for publication to more than one pub- 
lisher in succession — among these to Mr. Moxon, who 

lii 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

kept it by him longer than the rest. After he had 
returned it, she sent it to Messrs. Chapman & Hall. 
They retained it so long that she had “forgotten all 
about it,” when at last she heard of its acceptance. 
Before they actually published it in 1848, she had, as 
will be seen, added to the story towards its close. 

It is not surprising that Mrs. Gaskell should have 
readily followed her husband’s advice; but not the 
less striking is the illustration furnished by the result 
of the intimate alliance in noble minds between what 
Spenser might have distinguished as ‘ ‘ private ’ ’ emotion 
and “public” sympathy. What else could have made 
her turn so naturally and so quickly from her domestic 
sorrow in order to absorb herself in a natural trouble 
of the broadest human interest? Thus the key to the 
commanding effect exercised by Mrs. Gaskell’s first 
novel — an effect which was surpassed by that of none 
of its successors, and which no lapse of time is likely 
to take wholly away — is to be found without difficulty. 
It lies in the fact, to which every page of the book bears 
testimony, that it was her heart and its ponderings, 
widened in their range instead of narrowed by grief, 
which drew her to her theme and endeared it to her. 
The note of Mary Barton is simply a fellow-feeling, 
unstinted and unchecked in its utterance, and as deep 
as it is strong, with the poor and suffering. “Defend 
the poor and fatherless: see that such as are in need 
and necessity have right. ” 

The subject to which in Mary Barton an untried 
writer, hardly conscious of all the responsibilities of 
authorship, addressed herself with unhesitating direct- 
ness, was one that at the time occupied the thoughts of 
most Englishmen and Englishwomen capable of thinking 
at all. Among the publications of varied significance 

liii 


Introduction 


which, in that troubled decade of our national life, 
diseussed the sufferings of the workmen and their fam- 
ilies in our manufacturing districts, few attracted a 
more general interest than this anonymous tale, un- 
pretentious in both tone and spirit. Indeed, this 
simple unpretentiousness was itself Mary Barton's 
first passport to public attention and favour. In the 
Preface to the original Edition of 1848 (which has been 
reprinted in the present Edition) the authoress disclaims 
any knowledge whatever “of Political Economy, or the 
theories of trade. I have tried to write truthfully; 
and if my accounts agree or clash with any system, 
the agreement or disagreement is unintentional.” As 
a matter of fact, she had read Adam Smith, and 
perhaps, like Nicholas Higgins in North and South, had 
“tugged at” a few later authorities “about capital 
and labour, and labour and capital. ” Accordingly, 
though she never hesitated about supporting a prin- 
ciple as to whose justice she was satisfied at heart — 
taking the side, for instance, of those who went to the 
extreme length of objecting to factory work for married 
women — she contrived to avoid that kind of blunder 
into which well-intentioned ignorance is sure to rush; 
and her keenest critics were more eager to quarrel with 
her facts than to refute her arguments. And, in truth, 
the cause pleaded by her was one of which no hostile 
comment could impair the force — inasmuch as at bottom 
it was only a demand for a more careful study of the 
working population’s sufferings (which nobody attempted 
to deny) and for a more sympathetic treatment of 
their complaints — a more humane way of dealing 
with a vast social problem of which she neither ignored 
the complexity nor undertook to indicate the actual 
solution. Clothed in the form of a narrative combining 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

intense force of feeling with scrupulous fidelity of de- 
scription, full of the pathos that springs from a con- 
viction of the reality of the emotions reproduced, and 
interfused with a humour which just sufficiently lights 
up the gloom overhanging the scene, her plea went 
home. 

Written in the years 1845-7, when, notwithstanding 
the continuance of distress, the victory of free trade 
principles marked by the abolition of the duty on corn 
seemed to many minds to assure a brighter economical 
future, and published in 1848, when the menaces of the 
storm which was convulsing Europe passed harmless 
over our political horizon, the story of Mary Barton was 
avovredly concerned with a rather earlier period of 
English social history — the sorely troubled years 1842 
and 1843. By 1842, ten years had passed since Mr. 
Gaskell had brought home his bride to Manchester; 
and though there is no reason for assuming that she at 
once came into much contact with factory operatives 
and their families, yet, as she tells us, it was the cir- 
cumstance of her becoming acquainted with some of 
them which first gave her an insight into their ways of 
thinking or feeling. It has been seen how warm the 
interest was, which both she and her husband took in the 
life of the poor; and in these years to take such an in- 
terest meant, even more than in ordinary times, to enter 
into, and to sympathise with their sufferings. No literary 
influence seems to have in any appreciable degree co- 
operated with this experience — for, though the condition 
of the working classes, and of the factory operatives 
and their families in particular, was beginning to attract 
widespread attention, and to be discussed in many 
literary forms, the topic was only beginning to find its 
way into fiction, and it was Mrs. Gaskell whose example 


Introduction 

suggested to Dickens his much later effort in this 
direction. On the other hand, Disraeli’s Coningsby was 
published in 1844, probably just before Mrs. Gaskell 
began her story, and followed in 1845 by his Sybil, 
a work designed, even more directly than its prede- 
cessor, to “illustrate the condition of the people,” 
more especially in the manufacturing north. Beyond 
a doubt, though the prophet of the Young England 
party may not uncharitably be supposed to have been 
at the same time influenced by other motives, he and 
the authoress of Mary Barton were alike animated 
by a spirit of revolt against the principle of leaving 
economic processes to work themselves out in their 
own way. But — apart from its being virtually certain 
that Mrs. Gaskell, before writing her own novel, had 
remained quite unacquainted with both Coningsby 
and Sybil, of which neither she nor her huwsband is 
known ever to have made any mention — it would have 
been surprising had there not been at the time in which 
these works were produced sufficient coincidence of 
both theme and treatment to mislead ingenious critics. 
The signs of the times were writ large across the sky, 
and to a sympathetic observer face to face with them 
stood in no need of interpretation by the quick-witted, 
if at times fantastic, political seer. 

The condition of the manufacturing districts had been 
one of extreme gravity for some years before Mrs. 
Gaskell began her life in Manchester. The distress 
was primarily due to the scarcity of corn resulting from 
the bad harvests that from 1837 onwards had followed 
on four — or five — years of good harvests and general 
prosperity. The fall in wages, the rise in prices, and 
the growth of distress had caused alarm already in 1838, 
when neither Government nor Parliament were in the 


Ivi 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

least prepared to look any real remedy in the face, and 
the working classes entirely in the dark as to the chief 
cause of their sufferings, could only grope after remedies 
that did not touch the real seat of the evil. The great 
Chartist meeting on Kersal Moor, Manchester, was 
held on the same day (September 24, 1838) as a con- 
ference which took place in a Manchester hotel, and 
which resulted in the formation of the Anti-Corn-Law 
League. In 1839 the harvest was wretched, the distress 
increased, and the rejection by Parliament of a great 
Chartist petition, promoted by the National Convention 
of working-men’s delegates and signed by upwards of 
1,200,000 persons, embittered the feeling of the oper- 
atives; and at Manchester and elsewhere there was 
much turbulence, intimidation, and violence. This 
petition, presented to the House of Commons on June 
14 and not unfavourably received (though a motion 
to consider it was on July 12 lost by a majority of 189 
in a House of 281), is that referred to in Mary Barton, 
John Barton’s account of his visit to London as a dele- 
gate includes a satirical account by him of the company 
proceeding to a royal drawing-room. The incident 
is not idly introduced, for a good deal of feeling was at 
the time excited by court “functions” that were thought 
too full of display and were consequently soon moderated 
to obviate such censure. During the whole of this, 
and in the following, year (1840), things went from bad 
to worse. The operatives, after having been employed 
half time, largely found themselves out of work alto- 
gether, and had to live on their savings. With the 
growth of distress an increase of crime became per- 
ceptible. In 1841 these symptoms continued, and 
contributed to strengthen the general conviction of 
the impotence of the existing Government and to bring 

Ivii 


Introduction 


about its overthrow in the general election in that year. 
When Parliament met early in 1842, the distress of the 
manufacturing districts had reached its extreme point. 
The workmen and their families seemed hopelessly 
doomed to starvation, preceded by the loss of whatever 
bits of property they possessed. Appalling stories 
were publicly told at Manchester of the famine through 
which men, women, and children were passing, and of 
the methods, pitiable or desperate, to which resort 
was had in order to obtain food or clothing — or what 
had to do duty for these. “I remember,” wrote only 
the other day one of the few Lancashire employers of 
labour who survive to recall “the hungry forties,” 
“groups of men and women singing in the streets and 
begging for bread from door to door; employment was 
scarce, and the seething discontent continued till 1842, 
when it broke into riot, which spread over a great part 
of the county of Lancaster. ” It was early in this year 
that Lord Brougham declared in the House of Lords, - 
that, though he remembered the distress of 1808, of 
1812, and of 1816-17, those times, as compared with 
the present, had shown a relatively prosperous condition 
of things. At the opening of the Session of Parliament 
in 1842 the Queen’s speech had been able to state that 
“the sufferings and privations” resulting from the 
continued distress in the manufacturing districts had 
been “borne with exemplary patience and fortitude.” 
But while Sir Robert Peel’s remedial measures could 
not be expected to produce immediate results, and 
neither the minister nor the legislature were as yet able 
to make up their minds to the adoption of the only 
measure from which permanent relief could be expected, 
the working-men in vain looked for help from the ex- 
pedients of a monster petition and a terrorizing strike. 

Iviii 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

The petition, praying for the six points of the People’s 
Charter, and said to have been signed by over 3,315,000 
persons, was presented to the House of Commons on 
May 2 by Mr. Thomas Buncombe ; and on the following 
day he moved that the petitioners should be heard by 
themselves or their counsel at the Bar of the House, 
when he was defeated by a majority of 236. In August 
alarming riots took place in Manchester and the neigh- 
bourhood, and on the 9th of the month a general 
strike began, when thousands of men, with banners 
and bludgeons, broke into the town and for three days 
compelled the workmen to leave the mills. But though 
a meeting of Chartist delegates on the 12th decreed 
the continuance of the strike, it only lasted for six days 
longer, and a meeting of the delegates was dispersed 
by the police. 

The distress continued for some time without much 
abatement, though strenuous efforts were made to 
resist it by charitable efforts. The scheme for a national 
subscription, set on foot in August, 1842, by the Queen’s 
letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and carried 
on for several months, brought together a considerable 
sum, and private efforts went on at the same time on 
a large scale. It is certain that the sympathies of the 
governing classes with the ' sufferings of the ^workmen 
and their families had been stirred as they had never 
been stirred before. Though in February, 1843, Lord 
Ho wick’s motion for considering the distress of the 
country was rejected by the House of Commons, this 
was only on the legitimate ground that it was at the 
moment premature. A notable sign of the interest 
now taken in the condition of the working classes, 
especially in the manufacturing districts, was the 
attention bestowed upon the philanthropic exertions 

lix 


Introduction 


of Lord Ashley (afterwards Earl of Shaftesbury), and 
upon the exposure by him, not always after a careful 
consideration of the evidence on which he relied, of 
existing hardships and abuses. The impression pro- 
duced by these enquiries, and by the legislation which 
followed in the years 1842-4, is perceptible in Mary 
Barton, together with the differences of opinion which 
prevailed among the working classes on some of the 
reforms introduced for their benefit, as for instance 
on “this law o’ theirs, keeping childer from factory- 
work. ’’ Other endeavours made about this time for 
the improvement of the conditions under which the 
working classes lived and had their being, show that the 
conscience of the country had been awakened to some- 
thing deeper and better than a mere sense of danger. 
It was therefore not only a wide-spread compassionate 
interest in the existing state of things, but also a national 
eagerness for active effort towards a change for the better, 
of which contemporary English literature was catching 
the spirit, and of which Mary Barton in so signal a 
degree exhibited the influence. 

Enough has been said to recall the circumstances of 
the times in which Mary Barton, was written. At 
the date of its publication they were still so fresh in 
the minds of men, and in fact still so unchanged, as to 
explain much of the interest and most of the excitement 
created by the book before its literary merits could have 
been fully recognised. But these were acknowledged 
by a remarkable consensus of friend and foe, and to 
them must be attributed the remarkable endurance of 
the popularity of Mary Barton, at home, and the 
translation of the story into foreign tongues — French 
(by Mdlle. Morel), German, Spanish, Hungarian, and 
Finnish. 


lx 


"Mary Barton,” etc. 

In Manchester, the leading paper, the Manchester 
Guardian — always fearless, but not then as now an organ 
of wide popular sympathies — asserted the “only fault” 
of Mary Barton to be that the book “sinned generally 
against truth in matters of fact, either above the com- 
prehension of its authoress, or beyond her sphere of 
knowledge. ” The review (which appeared on February 
28, 1849) animadverted on the “morbid sensibility 
to the condition of operatives” displayed by her in 
accordance with the fashion that had set in of late 
among “the gentry and landed aristocracy”; and pro- 
ceeded to throw in a few minor charges as to inaccuracies 
of detail, including incorrectness in the reproduction of 
the dialect. Far more skilfully hostile was the editorial 
comment on a letter signed “D. Winstanley, ” published 
in the same paper on March 7 ; here the authoress was 
blamed for having misrepresented the conduct of the 
masters, while disguising from the men the fact that 
their surest remedy lay in self-help. On the other hand, 
congratulations reached Mrs. Gaskell, which left no 
doubt as to the impression created by her work. Carlyle, 
from whom she had borrowed a rather tinkling motto 
(afterwards suppressed) for the original Edition, en- 
couraged her to “write on”; Dickens was of the same 
mind; and the veteran Walter Savage Landor wrote 
some fine, if rather extravagant, lines (afterwards 
included in The Last Fruit off an Old Tree), in which 
he placed the “paraclete of the Bartons” side by side 
with the greatest of poets, as having recognised and 
proved that — 

“The human heart holds more within its cell 
Than universal Nature holds without. 

This thou hast shown me, standing up erect 
While I sat gazing, deep in reverent awe, 

Ixi 


Introduction 


Where Avon’s genius and where Arno’s meet; 

And thou hast taught me at the fount of Truth, 

That none confer God’s blessing but the poor, 

None but the heavy-laden reach His throne. ” 

Grateful, also, was the praise of Samuel Bamford, 
the author of the Passages in the Life of a Radical, 
the fervent aspirations of whose youth had mellowed 
down into a patient hopefulness of better days, to be 
brought on with the aid of education. In an earlier 
chapter of Mary Barton, Mrs. Gaskell had cited his 
pathetic poem God help the Poor; and in a note she 
had with perfect justice described him as “a ipan who 
illustrates his order, and shows what nobility may be 
in a cottage.” A late but invaluable testimony to the 
truthfulness of Mary Barton was that borne by Miss 
Edgeworth, who in 1849, only a few months before her 
death, in a letter to Mme. Belloc, described Mrs. Gaskell’s 
book as “not an exaggerated fiction like Eugene Sue’s 
Juif Errant, but only too true a representation.” 
She complained, however, that, notwithstanding the 
truthfulness of Mary Barton, its effect was to dis- 
courage and to fatigue — there were in it too many 
dying people and too many deathbeds. The criticism 
was not quite fair; for in a story telling of the life of 
the working classes at a time when death was never 
far from their thresholds, this visitant could not be 
kept out; moreover, death and the incidents attending 
it at all times exercise a commanding influence over the 
imaginations of the classes in question. What Miss 
Edgeworth really missed was the pervading presence 
of a humour that at once lightens, diverts, and cheers; 
nor could she have foreseen the measure of fulness to 
which this quality, here only observable in particular 
passages, was to attain in Mrs. Gaskell. 

Ixii 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

The most formidable critic of Mary Barton was a 
writer who may unhesitatingly be described as one of 
the most powerful controversial publicists of his day. 
The late Mr. William Rathbone Greg, with excellent 
warrant, constituted himself the champion of the master 
manufacturers; and was drawn by an irresistible fas- 
cination to expose what seemed to him a misrepresen- 
tation of their attitude and action during the distress 
by a writer for whose literary merits he cherished a 
warm admiration. In an elaborate paper which many 
years later he reprinted in his well-known volume. 
Mistaken Aims and Attainable Ideals of the Working 
Classes, he joined issue with the authoress of Mary 
Barton on two heads in particular. In the first place, 
he disputed the implication which he held to be con- 
veyed by the book as to the indifference exhibited 
towards the sufferings of the men by the employers and 
their class, and which, in his opinion, ignored alike the 
charitable efforts that had been made, the fairly high 
rate of wages that had been maintained, and the equally 
great misery in rural districts. In the second place, 
he insisted that the picture drawn in Mary Barton 
ignored the sufferings of the masters, which were “not 
the less severe, because the worst part of them were of 
the kind into which their dependants could not enter.” 
The sufferings of the operatives, he contended, were 
more acute, but much shorter. 

It may be conceded that there was an element of 
truth in these strictures. Beyond a doubt, the im- 
pression conveyed in Mary Barton as to the relations 
between employers and employed would have been 
none the less true if relieved by some reference to the 
efforts made among the classes to which the employers 
belonged for the alleviation of a distress which they were 

Ixiii 


Introduction 


incapable of removing. Beyond a doubt, too, the picture 
of the daily life of the Carson family — and its younger 
members in particular — fails to suggest that all who 
were in the ship had a share, of one kind or another, in 
the storm and stress. And there is a ring which some- 
how does not sound quite true in the account of the 
meeting between masters and men, and in the incident 
(on which the plot of the tale partially hinges) of the 
caricature of the starving workmen drawn with so 
brutal an apathy by young Carson. But, even if this 
be allowed, Mrs. Gaskell’s chief censor — on his own 
showing — failed to convict her of having erred in main- 
taining that, from the standpoint whether of humanity 
or Christianity, there was something radically wrong 
in the existing relations between masters and men. She 
repeatedly sums up her view as to the faultiness of these 
relations, and as to what might alleviate— she never 
takes it upon herself to suggest that it would remove — ■ 
the evils of which she complains. Nowhere in the book 
is this so directly essayed as in the final conversation — 
added after the story had been first completed — between 
old Carson and Job Leigh. At the root of the mis- 
understanding between masters and men, it is here 
suggested, lay the rooted belief of the working-men that 
there was “no inclination” on the part of the masters 
“to try and help the evils” which were wearing out the 
lives of the men and their families, “while they saw 
the masters could stop work and not suffer.” “It’s 
in things for show they cut short,” says Job, a most 
reasonable wrangler; “while for such as me it ’s in 
things for life we’ve to stint.” “Have they ever,” 
asks John Barton, in a more passionate moment, “seen 
a child o’ their ’n die for want of food? ” Such questions 
deserved not only answers which were fitted to turn 

Ixiv 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

away wrath, but also such as frankly and openly dealt 
with the questioners as with brethren and friends. Was 
Mrs. Gaskell mistaken in implying that this was not 
the spirit in which the problem had been treated within 
her experience? And while her censor, applauding 
her insight into the wonderful sympathy of the poor 
for the poor, was suggesting that rich and poor would 
understand one another better “if they could but change 
places for a while, “ was she not actually suggesting meth- 
ods of mutual understanding which may have at the time 
seemed not less visionary, but which the efforts of later 
generations have not quite fruitlessly begun to put into 
practice ? 

It should, in common justice, be added that the whole 
conception and plan of Mary Barton was unfairly 
treated when the authoress was accused of having in 
the character of John Barton — ill-humoured and vin- 
dictive — misrepresented the sentiments and conduct 
of the very workmen for whom she was so anxious 
to plead. Manifestly, John Barton was intended to be 
the central figure of the story; but, quite as unmis- 
takably, he was not intended as a type of the class to 
which he belonged. An inevitable consequence of such 
a social crisis as this novel is designed to depict is its 
exceptional effect upon exceptional natures — ^passionate, 
profound, with the defects of their qualities superadded 
to the defects of their training. But on this topic Mrs. 
Gaskell may be left to speak for herself, in a letter of 
which the uncompleted draft remains among her papers 
and which was addressed, or intended to be addressed, 
to the sister-in-law of the most prominent censor of 
her book, Mr. W. R. Greg. This letter, it will be noticed, 
at the same time contains an interesting statement as to 
an addition made, owing to accidental cau.^QS, to the, 

Ixv 


Introduction 


conclusion of the story — an addition which extends to 
considerably more than three pages. 

My dear Mrs. Greg, 

May I write in the first person to you, as I have many 
things I should like to say to the writer of the remarks on ‘Mary 
Barton’ which Miss Mitchell has sent me, and which I con- 
jecture were written by your husband? Those remarks and 
the note which accompanied have given me great and real 
pleasure. I have heard much about the disapproval which 
Mr. Greg’s family have felt with regard to ‘M. B,,’ and have 
heard of it with so much regret that I am particularly glad that 
Mr. Sam Greg does not participate in it. I regretted the dis- 
approbation, not one whit on account of the testimony of such 
disapproval which I heard was to arise out of it, but because I 
knew that such a feeling would be conscientiously and thought- 
fully entertained by men who are acquainted by long experience 
with the life, a portion of which I had endeavoured to represent ; 
and whose actions during a long course of years have proved 
that the interests of their work-people are as dear to them as 
their own. Such disapproval, I was sure, would not be given 
if the writing which called it forth were merely a free expression 
of ideas; but it would be given if I had misrepresented, or so 
represented, a past as the whole, as that people at a distance 
should be misled and prejudiced against the masters, and that 
class be estranged from class. 

“I value the remarks exceedingly, because the writer has 
exactly entered into my own state of mind, and perceived the 
weakness of which I was conscious. The whole tale grew up in 
my mind as imperceptibly as a seed germinates in the earth, 
so I cannot trace back now why or how such a thing was written, 
or such a character or circumstance introduced. (There is one 
exception to this which I will name afterwards.) I can remem- 
ber now that the prevailing thought in my mind, at the time 
when the tale was silently forming itself and impressing me 
with the force of a reality, was the seeming injustice of the 
inequalities of fortune. Now, if they occasionally appeared 
unjust to the more fortunate, they must bewilder an ignorant 
man full of rude, illogical thought, and full also of sympathy for 
suffering which appealed to him through his senses. I fancied 
I saw hqw all this might lead to a course of action which might 

Ixvi 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

appear right for a time to the bewildered mind of such a one 
but that this course of action, violating the eternal laws of God, 
would bring with it its own punishment of an avenging con- 
science far more difficult to bear than any worldly privation. 
Such thoughts I now believe, on looking back, to have been the 
origin of the book. “John Barton” was the original title of the 
book. Round the character of John Barton all the others formed 
themselves ; he was my hero, the person with whom all my 
sympathies went, with whom I tried to identify myself at the 
time, because I believed from personal observation that such 
men were not uncommon, and would well reward such sympathy 
and love as should throw light down upon their groping search 
after the causes of suffering, and the reason why suffering is 
sent, and what they can do to lighten it. Mr. Greg has exactly 
described, and in clearer language than I could have used, the 
very treatment which I am convinced is needed to* bring such 
bewildered thinkers round into an acknowledgment of the 
universality of some kind of suffering, and the consequent 
necessity of its existence for some good end. If “ Mary Barton ” 
has no other result than the expression of the thoroughly just, 
wise, kind thoughts which Mr. Greg has written down with regard 
to characters like John Barton, I am fully satisfied. There are 
many such whose lives are magic poems which cannot take 
formal language. The tale was formed, and the greater part 
of the first volume was written, when I was obliged to lie down 
constantly on the sofa, and when I took refuge in the invention 
to exclude the memory of painful scenes which would force 
themselves upon my remembrance. It is no wonder then that 
the whole book seems to be written in the minor key; indeed, 
the very design seems to me to require this treatment. I ac- 
knowledge the fault of there being too heavy a shadow over the 
book; but I doubt if the story could have been deeply realised 
without these shadows. The cause of the fault must be looked 
for in the design; and yet the design was one worthy to be brought 
into consideration. Perhaps after all it may be true that I, in 
my state of feeling at that time, was not fitted to introduce 
the glimpses of light and happiness which might have relieved 
the gloom. And now I return to the part I named before, where 
I can trace and remember how unwillingly and from what force 
of outside pressure (which is, I am convinced, a wrong motive 
for writing and sure only to produce a failure) it was written. 

Ixvii 


Introduction 


The tale was originally complete without the part which inter- 
venes between John Barton’s death and Esther’s; about three 
pages, I fancy, including that conversation between Job Leigh, 
and Mr. Carson, and Jem Wilson. The MS. had been in the 
hands of the publisher above 14 months, and was nearly all 
printed, when the publisher sent me word that it would fall 
short of the requisite number of pages, and that I must send 
up some more as soon as possible. I remonstrated over and 
over again — I even said I would rather relinquish some of the 
payment than interpolate anything; that the work . . . 

No more can be said here as to the controversial 
criticism which at such a time such a book was fated 
to provoke; though it may be worth while to remind 
those who at the present day might be inclined to regard 
the authoress of Mary Barton as a herald of the 
advancing tide of democracy, that her ideals are still 
very far removed from those which later generations 
have, with more or less of success, striven to realise. 

The letter printed above shows how quickly Mrs. 
Gaskell’s warm heart, stimulated by the imaginative 
power which was of the essence of her genius, had 
initiated her into that knowledge of the poor to which 
none of her works bears witness with such amplitude 
and directness as her earliest story. Here her sym- 
pathy went the full length of the recognition due to the 
virtues of the poor. She rendered justice to that 
fellow-feeling which regards no sacrifice as such, because 
it is merely a response to a claim that admits of no 
denial: — “it’s the poor, and the poor only, as does such 
things for the poor. ’’ And she also acknowledged the 
force of a virtue whose sources lie deeper than even 
those of the most unselfish kindliness — the patience of 
the poor under suffering, and the self-surrender to the 
dispensations of a Higher Power which this renunci- 
ation implies. Of the noblest kind of unselfishness, as 
that which springs from the deepest source, the char- 

Ixviii 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

acter of old Alice, drawn with a singularly refined tender- 
ness, is clearly designed to furnish an illustration. And 
it is interesting to find that the pathetic picture of the 
deathbed amidst “dusky streets and shrouded skies,” 
irradiated by dreams of a happy country home in the 
long ago, were anticipated in the Sketch among the 
Poor, written several years earlier by Mrs. Gaskell 
and her husband. But the sympathy and admiration 
with which contact with her poor neighbours had in- 
spired her by no means blinded the authoress of Mary 
Barton to the failings of the masses — to their fatalism 
and superstitiousness, whether shown in such reckless- 
ness as that cherished by them on the subject of infection 
(“and well for them it is so!”), or in fond fancies, like 
the belief that “there’s none can die in the arms of those 
who are wishing them sore to stay on earth. ” A rapidly 
acquired knowledge of her own Manchester surroundings 
already gave a colouring of its own to Mrs. Gaskell’s 
“intimate” reproduction of the lives and thoughts of 
the working-men and their families. The whole tone 
and temper of the story, so to speak, closely identify 
themselves with Manchester, from the opening scene 
onwards in the Greenheys fields, to which (or to what 
remains of them) “Barton Street” leads at the present 
day. As one turns over the pages of the book, it trans- 
plants one among the endless monotony of streets and 
courts, among the rough-mannered but quickly re- 
sponsive workmen and women, and the factory-girls 
in their picturesque plaid “mantillas”; and a sort of 
Heimweh comes upon one as it came upon Mary Barton 
on her first railway journey to remote Liverpool. Mrs. 
Gaskell had already, by a kind of intuition, qualified 
herself to become the representative novelist of the 
Manchester district. She understood its people and 

Ixix 


Introduction 

their parlance; and, whether or not she was already 
firmly grounded in their dialect, her severest critic 
cannot be held to have gone too far in expressing his 
conviction that the dialogues of her story “approached 
very nearly, in both tone and style, to the conversa- 
tions actually carried on in the dingy cottages of Lan- 
cashire. ” And she knew the folk by whom she was 
surrounded in their intellectual vigour — as showing 
itself for instance in the scientific tastes and pursuits 
of many a thoughtful working-man in Manchester, 
Oldham, and the neighbouring towns — and in their 
opinionativeness, so largely due to the conservative 
instincts of a race eminently fitted for survival. 

With Mrs. Gaskell’s power of observation, the quality 
of humour with which she was so richly endowed was 
in her earliest work not yet altogether able to keep 
pace. Occasionally, as in the narrative of John Barton’s 
London experiences, or the contention about mermaids 
between the old naturalist and the young sailor, it is 
still too strictly of the northern, and somewhat patri- 
archal type; but here and there it asserts itself with a 
genial truthfulness which Dickens at his best could not 
easily have excelled. Such passages and characters 
are the famous journey of two men and a baby, said to 
have been based in a measure upon the traditions of the 
authoress’ own infant experiences; the gamin Charley 
who guides the desperate Mary through the perils of 
the Liverpool Docks and river; and the hospitality 
shown to her by the gruff Ben Sturgis and his silent 
wife. But more notable in Mary Barton than the play- 
ful charm of Mrs. Gaskell’s humour is its restrain- 
ing and mitigating force, which prevents the action 
of the story, with all its intensity, from passing into 
melodrama, and its characters, though strongly marked 

Ixx 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

and contrasted, from lapsing into caricature. Old Carson, 
who is presented as the type of the master manufacturer, 
is, as has been well remarked, a character far more true 
to nature than Dickens’s grotesque creation of Boun- 
derby; his pride has its limits, and, though his outer man 
remains unchanged, his heart is softened at the last. 

In her use of passion, and of that gentler reflexion of 
it which we call pathos, on the other hand, the authoress 
of Mary Barton at once came near to the height of 
her powers. If Mr. Carson’s reception of the news of 
his son’s death, and perhaps another incident or two 
in the story, is rather over-coloured in the melodramatic 
style on which Dickens’s Oliver Twist and subsequent 
writings had set the seal of popularity, there are scenes, 
such as that of the final interview between the old man 
and the murderer of his son, in which the strength 
of the situation calls for an intensity of manner in which 
the narrative is not found wanting.* But by far the 
most notable among the distinctive features of this 
book — however blandly it would be ignored in a criti- 
cism disregarding all connexion between the ethical 
value of a work of the imagination and the aesthetical 
pleasure given by it — is the elevation and purity of its 
conception and execution. The story is an attempt to 
embody in human action the effect of the divine precept 
of unselfish love — “instead of over-much profession 
to work it into life;’’ while the writer stands aside in 
sympathy and sorrow, content to send up her cry of 

* It seems desirable to place on record the fact, as stated by 
Mr. W. E. A. Axon in his Annals of Manchester, p. i8i, that 
there is no resemblance between the circumstances of the 
murder of young Carson, as narrated in Mary Barton, and 
those of the murder of Mr. Thomas Ashton, of Werneth, in 1831. 
In the case of Mr. Ashton, the motive was not private vengeance 
— for Mr. Ashton was an amiable young man — but a desire to 

Ixxi 


Introduction 

simple self-reproach, “that we have not done all we 
could for the stray and wandering ones of our brethren. ” 
The literary qualities of this work impressed them- 
selves at once upon its readers; nor has the lapse of 
years in any way impaired their freshness or their 
force. In mere power of narrative — the art of telling 
a story so as to keep all to whom it is told under its spell 
— Mrs. Gaskell cannot be said to have ever surpassed 
her earliest sustained effort. What could be better 
in its way than poor Mary’s chase of Will Wilson, by 
land and by water, and who could read of it with soul 
so dead as not to echo Charley’s admonition — “Don’t 
give it up yet; let ’s have a try for him”.? The scene at 
the Assize Courts, too — a kind of scene whose infinite 
dramatic capabilities rarely fail to put a writer on his 
mettle — is admirably put through, odd as it is that a 
summing up by the Judge should have been omitted 
by Mrs. Gaskell (whose happy family connexion with 
Bench and Bar, through the marriages of two of her 
four daughters, was still to come). The dialogues so 
abundantly interspersed in the story have an ease and 
a spontaneity most uncommon in a writer who never 
so much as essayed the dramatic form; and Mr. W. R. 
Greg justly described them as “managed with a degree 
of ease and naturalness rarely attained even by the 
most experienced writers of fiction. ” 

There is no reason for attributing to the lyrical in- 

intimidate the masters generally. There was at the time a 
very serious strike in the Ashton district, but the example was 
not followed at Manchester. The murder, in 1830, at Manchester, 
near what is now Brunswick Street, of Charles Robinson, was 
at the time thought to be a trade outrage, but the murderer 
was never detected, and the evidence at the inquest pointed to an 
intention of robbery. 


Ixxii 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

ventiveness of Mrs. Gaskell the mottoes at the heads 
of several of the chapters of Mary Barton, to which 
is appended the description, something in Scott’s well- 
known “Old Play” manner, of “Manchester Song.” 
They were more probably the productions of her husband, 
who had a distinct lyrical gift, to which his contri- 
butions to the late Dr. Martineau’s Hymns of Prayer 
and Praise, and some translations from the German in 
particular, remain to testify. One of these “ Manchester 
Song ” quotations — that at the head of Chapter LXX. 
— was substituted for the Wordsworthian motto that 
appeared in the original edition of 1848. The interest 
taken by Mr. Gaskell in the work which so quickly secured 
a literary name to his wife, remains in evidence through 
his elaborate illustrations of dialect forms introduced 
by her into the conversations of the personages of her 
story. To the fifth Edition of Mary Barton (1854), 
now out of print, were appended two lectures by him on 
the Lancashire dialect. 

Finally, Mary Barton gives proof — in a measure 
extraordinary in a first work — of a literary gift which, 
whether in novelist or in dramatist, surpasses all other 
gifts in enduring importance as well as in resistless effect. 
This is the insight into character which may be said to 
enable the author to understand the creatures of his 
imagination better than they understood themselves — 
as a parent often sees further into the working of a 
child’s mind than the child can see. The gocd Mar- 
garet, incapable of perceiving the stress of a struggle 
against principle which she has never been tempted 
to maintain; poor old Mrs. Wilson, “hugging her grief” 
and proud of a martyrdom largely self-inflicted; and 
good Job Leigh, not accustomed to “pray regular,” but 
often, when very happy or very. miserable, “speaking a 

Ixxiii 


Introduction 

word to God” — these are instances of an irony which, 
made up of clear-sightedness and sympathy, is the 
superlative gift of imaginative writers of a later age. 
For John Barton, her primary hero, the narrator of 
his story has a profound pity where she most strongly 
condemns ; of his daughter, whom we persist in regarding 
as, in spite of herself, the heroine of the tale, we come 
to understand that, though “there never was so young 
a girl so friendless, or so penniless, as Mary was at this 
time,” there never was one who, like Una in the poem, 
was so sure of help. 

Of the shorter pieces included in this volume, Lihhie 
Marsh's Three Eras and The Sexton's Hero were first 
published in 1847 H owin' s Journal, where in the 

following year also appeared the sketch entitled 
Christmas Storms and Sunshine, which is reprinted 
in vol. ii. of the present Edition. All three tales were 
published under the collective title of Life in Man- 
chester, with the composite pseudonym signature of 
“Cotton Mather Mills, Esq.” Tibbie Marsh's Three 
Eras was republished as a Lancashire Tale, in 1850; 
and a French translation of it appeared in 1854, in 
a series called the Bibliotheque Universelle, under the 
title of Trois Epoques de la vie de Tibbie Marsh. It 
is a “city idyll” of a quite unpretending and un- 
affected sort — a pretty pendant to Mary Barton, showing 
the life of the Manchester working classes in its very 
kindliest phase, the holiday-making of Whitweek. This 
holiday-making had, even in Libbie Marsh’s days, ex- 
tended far beyond the confines of Dunham woods, 
and before long will doubtless carry its victims to Paris 
or the Riviera; but the kindly spirit of the tale is a 
mood which, it may be hoped, has not yet been con- 

Ixxiv 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

demned by Manchester operatives as mere “Early 
Victorian” optimism. 

The Sexton's Hero, was, in 1850, together with 
Christmas Storms and Sunshine, printed by Mrs. 
Gaskell as a contribution by the authoress of Mary 
Barton to a jHe organised by her intimate friend 
Mrs. Davenport (afterwards Lady Hatherton) , of Capes- 
thome in Cheshire, “for the benefit of the Maccles- 
field Public Baths and Wash-houses.” A unique copy 
of the booklet containing the two stories, printed by 
Johnson, Rawson and Co., of Corporation Street (who 
may have privately enjoyed the fun about the Examiner 
in the Christmas tale), is preserved at the Moss Side 
Manchester Free Library,, to which it was presented 
by Mrs. GaskelTs daughters. The Sexton's Hero was 
reprinted in 1855 in a volume entitled Lizzie Leigh, 
and other Stories. It is a stirring tale of self-sacrifice, 
of which the scene is laid on the stretch of sands along 
Morecambe Bay, between Lancaster and Ulverston, 
commonly called the Lancaster Sands. The dangers 
by which, notwithstanding all precautions, the passage 
over these sands is beset, are familiar to visitors to the 
Lake Country. An interesting account of the passage 
is given in W. T. Palmer’s Lake Country Rambles, 
pp. 90-118. This writer says of a dangerous part of 
the sands that ‘ ‘ its difference in level between the channel 
and the shore is really a trifling twenty feet or more; 
yet when you are crossing, the idea forces itself upon 
you that you are descending into a great depth, and 
the neighbouring shores seem to rise higher as they 
become more distant”; and mentions some of the 
chief disasters, which occurred not far from the date of 
Mrs. Gaskell’s story. In 1846 nine young men and 

Ixxv 


Introduction 

women returning from the Whitsuntide fair at Ulverston 
to their homes on the Cartmel side were drowned; 
in 1857 seven young men who had started to cross Kent 
Sands to Lancaster. “People living within measurable 
distance of the sands will tell you that those who get 
their living by ‘ following the sands’ hardly ever die in 
their beds.” Of course the opening of the Furness 
Railway in 1864 has put an end to such risks being run 
by ordinary travellers and traffic. 

The author cited refers (p. 114) to a story of a horse’s 
sagacity told by the poet Gray in his Journal (Works, 
1816, vol. ii., pp. 541-2), which so closel}^ resembles the 
incident of the “old mare’s” instinctive perception of 
the danger in The Sexton's Hero, that it may possibly 
have suggested to Mrs. Gaskell the germ of her story: 

[Lancaster]. October ii, [1769] . . . Walked over a penin- 
sula three miles to the village of Pooton, which stands on the 
beach. An old fisherman mending his nets (while I enquired 
about the danger of passing those sands) told me in his dialect 
a moving story. How a brother of the trade, a cockier (as he 
styled him), driving a little cart with two daughters (women 
grown) in it, and his wife on horseback following, set out one 
day to pass the Seven Mile Sands, as they had frequently been 
used to do ; for nobody in the village knew them better than the 
old man did. When they were about halfway over a thick fog 
rose, and as they advanced they found the water much deeper 
than they expected. The old man was puzzled ; he stopped and 
said he would go a little way to find some mark he was ao 
quainted with. They staid a little while for him, but in vain. 
They called aloud, but no reply; at last the young women 
pressed their mother to think where they were, and go on. She 
would not quit her horse, and get into the cart with them. 
They determined, after much time wasted, to turn back, and 
give themselves up to the guidance of their horses. The old 
woman was soon washed off and perished. The poor girls 
clung close to their cart, and the horse, some times wading and 
sometimes swimming, brought them back to land alive, but sense- 

l.xxvi 


“Mary Barton,” etc. 

less with terror and distress, and unable for many days to give 
any account of themselves. The bodies of their parents were 
found soon after (next ebb) ; that of the father a very few paces 
distant from the spot where he had left them. 

On the other hand, Mrs. Gaskell may have heard some 
such tale on the spot; for, as has been seen, in the early 
days of her married life, Lancashire “north of the 
Sands” had already become one of her familiar retreats. 

A. W. W. 

March, 1906. 


Ixxvii 




I 


\ . ' f 




f 




S\> 


:j^ 



‘ j 

• « 



{ 


t 



i 


f".. 

V '■ '.; 




•>;/< - ' 

1 , 


'i. 

y.f. 

•• i 

• * 1 

.\ -f 

1 


'•■'f 

r, 



^.1 ' ' . t 

■ V ^ I 

’ I 


t 



i 


0 p 


I 









^ N 

t 



V V . 

t 

*• 



y 

* fc* 


PREFACE 


TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION OF 1848 

Three years ago I became anxious (from circum- 
stances that need not be more fully alluded to) to em- 
ploy myself in writing a work of fiction. Living in 
Manchester, but with a deep relish and fond admiration 
for the country, my first thought was to find a frame- 
work for my story in some rural scene ; and I had already 
made a little progress in a tale, the period of which was 
more than a century ago, and the place on the borders 
of Yorkshire, when I bethought me how deep might be 
the romance in the lives of some of those who elbowed 
me daily in the busy streets of the town in which I 
resided. I had always felt a deep sympathy with the 
care-worn men, who looked as if doomed to struggle 
through their lives in strange alternations between work 
and want ; tossed to and fro by circumstances, apparently 
in even a greater degree than other men. A little 
manifestation of this sympathy, and a little attention 
to the expression of feelings on the part of some of the 
work-people with whom I was acquainted, had laid open 
to me the hearts of one or two of the more thoughtful 
among them; I saw that they were sore and irritable 
against the rich, the even tenor of whose seemingly 
happy lives appeared to increase the anguish caused 
by the lottery-like nature of their own. Whether the 
bitter complaints made by them of the neglect which 
they experienced from the prosperous — especially from 

Ixxix 


Author’s Preface 

the masters whose fortunes they had helped to build 
up — were well-founded or no, it is not for me to judge. 
It is enough to say, that this belief of the injustice and 
unkindness which they endure from their fellow- 
creatures taints what might be resignation to God’s 
will, and turns it to revenge in many of the poor un- 
educated factory- workers of Manchester. 

The more I reflected on this unhappy state of things 
between those so bound to each other by common 
interests, as the employers and the employed must ever 
be, the more anxious I became to give some utterance 
to the agony which, from time to time, convulses this 
dumb people ; the agony of suffering without the 
sympathy of the happy, or of erroneously believing 
that such is the case. If it be an error that the woes, 
which come with ever returning tide-like flood to over- 
whelm the workmen in our manufacturing towns, pass 
unregarded by all but the sufferers, it is at any rate an 
error so bitter in its consequences to all parties, that 
whatever public effort can do in the way of merciful 
deeds, or helpless love in the way of “ widow’s mites” 
could do, should be done, and that speedily, to disabuse 
the work-people of so miserable a misapprehension. 
At present they seem to me to be left in a state wherein 
lamentations and tears are thrown aside as useless, but 
in which the lips are compressed for curses, and the 
hands clenched and ready to smite. 

I know nothing of Political Economy, or the theories 
of trade. I have tried to write truthfully; and if my 
accounts agree or clash with any system, the agreement 
or disagreement is unintentional. 

To myself the idea which I have formed of the state 
of feeling among too many of the factory-people in 
Manchester, and which I endeavoured to represent 

Ixxx 


Author’s Preface 


in this tale (completed above a year ago) , has re- 
ceived some confirmation from the events which have 
to recently occurred among a similar class on the Con- 
tinent. 

October, 1848. 


Ixxxi 




;iv^ 


’^.li ■ } 


■ } f'U-nl l¥,r.vX5( ;;«{!' 
.! . ii )-^n0lni5. [)'>'■ 




' 'Si/ .’ ' V 


MARY BARTON 

A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE 


CHAPTER I 

A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE 

“ Oh 1 ’tis hard, ’tis hard to be working 
The whole of the live-long day, 

When all the neighbours about one 
Are off to their jaunts and play. 

“ There’s Richard he carries his baby, 

And Mary takes little Jane, 

And lovingly they’ll be wandering 
Through field and briery lane.” 

Manchester Song. 

There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the 
inhabitants as “ Green Heys Fields,” through which runs a 
public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. 
In spite of these fields being flat, and low, nay, in spite of 
the want of wood (the great and usual recommendation of 
level tracts of land), there is a charm about them which 
strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who 
sees and feels the effect of contrast in these commonplace 
but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manu- 
facturing town he left but half-an-hour ago. Here and there 
an old black and white farm-house, with its rambling out- 
buildings, speaks of other times and other occupations than 
those which now absorb the population of the neighbourhood. 
Here in their seasons may be seen the country business of 
haymaking, ploughing, &c., which are such pleasant mysteries 

I B 


Mary Barton 

for townspeople to watch : and here the artisan, deafened 
with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile 
to the delicious sounds of rural life : the lowing of cattle, the 
milkmaid’s call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the old 
farmyards. You cannot wonder, then, that these fields are 
popular places of resort at every holiday time ; and you would 
not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, the charm 
of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions, a 
crowded halting-place. Close by it is a deep, clear pond, 
reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees that bend 
over it to exclude the sun. The only place where its banks 
are shelving is on the side next to a rambling farmyard, 
belonging to one of those old world, gabled, black and white 
houses I named above, overlooking the field through which 
the public footpath leads. The porch of this farm-house is 
covered by a rose-tree ; and the little garden surrounding it 
is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, 
planted long ago, when the garden was the only druggist’s 
shop within reach, and allowed to grow in scrambling and 
wild luxuriance — roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rose- 
mary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most 
repubhcan and indiscriminate order. This farmhouse and 
garden are within a hundred yards of the stile of which I 
spoke, leading from the large pasture field into a smaller 
one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn and blackthorn ; and 
near this stile, on the further side, there runs a tale that 
primroses may often be found, and occasionally the blue 
sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank. 

I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by 
the masters, or a holiday seized in right of Nature and her 
beautiful spring time by the workmen, but one afternoon (now 
ten or a dozen years ago) these fields were much thronged. 
It was an early May evening — the April of the poets ; for 
heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the round, 
soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over the 
dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and 
more threatening. The softness of the day tempted forth 


2 


A Mysterious Disappearance 

the young green leares, which almost visibly fluttered into 
life ; and the willows, which that morning had only a brown 
reflection in the water below, were now of that tender grey- 
green which blends so delicately with the spring harmony 
of colours. 

Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose 
ages might range from twelve to twenty, came by with a 
buoyant step. They were most of them factory girls, and 
wore the usual out-of-doors dress of that particular class of 
maidens ; namely, a shawl, which at midday or in fine weather 
was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards evening, or 
if the day were chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla or 
Scotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely 
down, or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque 
fashion. 

Their faces were not remarkable for beauty ; indeed, they 
were below the average, with one or two exceptions ; they 
had dark hair, neatly and classically arranged dark eyes, 
but sallow complexions and irregular features. The only 
thing to strike a passer-by was an acuteness and intelligence 
of countenance, which has often been noticed in a manu- 
facturing population. 

There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, 
rambling among these fields, ready to bandy jokes with any 
one, and particularly ready to enter into conversation with 
the girls, who, however, held themselves aloof, not in a shy, 
but rather in an independent way, assuming an indifferent 
manner to the noisy wit or obstreperous compliments of the 
lads. Here and there came a sober quiet couple, either 
whispering lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might 
be; and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by 
an infant, carried for the most part by the father, while 
occasionally even three or four little toddlers had been carried 
or dragged thus far, in order that the whole family might 
enjoy the delicious May afternoon together. 

Some time in the course of that afternoon, two working 
men met with friendly greeting at the stile so often named. 

3 


Mary Barton 

One was a thorough specimen of a Manchester man ; born 
of factory workers, and himself bred up in youth, and living 
in manhood, among the mills. He was below the middle 
size and slightly made ; there was almost a stunted look 
about him ; and his wan, colourless face, gave you the idea, 
that in his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living 
consequent upon bad times, and improvident habits. His 
features were strongly marked, though not irregular, and 
their expression was extreme earnestness ; resolute either for 
good or evil, a sort of latent stern enthusiasm. At the time 
of which I write, the good predominated over the bad in the 
countenance, and he was one from whom a stranger would 
have asked a favour with tolerable faith that it would be 
granted. He was accompanied by his wife, who might, 
without exaggeration, have been called a lovely woman, 
although now her face was swollen with crying, and often 
hidden behind her apron. She had the fresh beauty of the 
agricultural districts; and somewhat of the deficiency of 
sense in her countenance, which is likewise characteristic 
of the rural inhabitants in comparison with the natives of the 
manufacturing towns. She was far advanced in pregnancy, 
which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hysterical 
nature of her grief. The friend whom they met was more 
handsome and less sensible-looking than the man I have just 
described ; he seemed hearty and hopeful, and although his 
age was greater, yet there was far more of youth’s buoyancy 
in his appearance. He was tenderly carrying a baby in arms, 
while his wife, a delicate fragile-looking woman, limping in 
her gait, bore another of the same age ; little, feeble twins, 
inheriting the frail appearance of their mother. 

The last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a 
sudden look of sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. “ Well, 
John, how goes it with you ? ” and in a lower voice, he added, 

“ Any news of Esther yet? ” Meanwhile the wives greeted 
each other like old friends, the soft and plaintive voice of the 
mother of the twins seeming to call forth only fresh sobs 
from Mrs. Barton. 


4 


A Mysterious Disappearance 

“ Come, women,” said John Barton, “ you’ve both walked 
far enough. My Mary expects to have her bed in three 
weeks ; and as for you, Mrs. Wilson, you know you are but 
a cranky sort of a body at the best of times." ^his was said 
so kindly, that no offence could be taken. “ Sit you down 
here ; the grass is well nigh dry by this time ; and you’re 
neither of you nesh* folk about taking cold. Stay,” he 
added, with some tenderness, “ here’s my pocket-handkerchief 
to spread under you to save the gowns women always think 
so much on ; and now, Mrs. Wilson, give me the baby, I 
may as well carry him, while you talk and comfort my wife ; 
poor thing, she takes on sadly about Esther.” 

These arrangements were soon completed; the two 
women sat down on the blue cotton handkerchiefs of their 
husbands, and the latter, each carrying a baby, set off for a 
further walk; but as soon as Barton had turned his back 
upon his wife, his countenance fell back into an expression 
of gloom. 

“ Then you’ve heard nothing of Esther, poor lass ? ” 
asked Wilson, 

“ No, nor shan’t, as I take it. My mind is, she’s gone 
off with somebody. My wife frets and thinks she’s drowned 
herself, but I tell her, folks don’t care to put on their best 
clothes to drown themselves; and Mrs. Bradshaw where 
she lodged, you know» says the last time she set eyes on her 
was last Tuesday, when she came downstairs, dressed in her 
Sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in her bonnet, and 
gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond of think- 
ing herself.” 

“ She was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on.” 

“ Ay, she was a farrantly f lass ; more’s the pity now,” 

♦ “ Nesh ; ” Anglo-Saxon, nesc, tender. 

“ It seemeth for love his herte is tendre and neshe.” 

Chaucer, Court of Love. 
t “ Farrantly,” comely, pleasant-looking. 

“ And hir hatir (attire) was wele far and." 

Egbert de Brunne. 


5 


Mary Barton 

added Barton, with a sigh. “ You see them Buckingham- 
shire people as comes to work here has quite a different look 
with them to us Manchester folk. You’ll not see among the 
Manchester wenches such fresh rosy cheeks, or such black 
lashes to grey eyes (making them look like black), as my 
wife and Esther had. I never seed two such pretty women 
for sisters ; never. Not but what beauty is a sad snare. 
Here was Esther so puffed up, that there was no holding 
her in. Her spirit was always up, if I spoke ever so little 
in the way of advice to her ; my wife spoiled her, it is true, 
for you see she was so much older than Esther, she was 
more like a mother to her, doing everything for her.” 

“ I wonder she ever left you,” observed his friend. 

“ That’s the worst of factory work for girls. They can 
earn so much when work is plenty, that they can maintain 
themselves anyhow. My Mary shall never work in a factory, 
that I’m determined on. You see Esther spent her money 
in dress, thinking to set off her pretty face ; and got to come 
home so late at night, that at last I told her my mind ; my 
missis thinks I spoke crossly, but I meant right, for I loved 
Esther, if it was only for Mary’s sake. Says I, ‘ Esther, I 
see what you’ll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away 
veils, and stopping out when honest women are in their 
beds ; you’ll be a street-walker, Esther, and then, don’t you 
go to think I’ll have you darken my door, though my wife is 
your sister.’ So says she ‘ Don’t trouble yourself, John, I’ll 
pack up and be off now, for I’ll never stay to hear myself 
called as you call me.’ She flushed up like a turkey-cock, 
and I thought fire would come out of her eyes ; but when 
she saw Mary cry (for Mary can’t abide words in a house), 
she went and kissed her, and said she was not so bad as I 
thought her. So we talked more friendly, for as I said, 
I liked the lass well enough, and her pretty looks, and her 
cheery ways. But she said (and at that time I thought 
there was sense in what she said) we should be much better 
friends if she went into lodgings, and only came to see us 
now and then.” 


6 


A Mysterious Disappearance 

“ Then you still were friendly. Folks said you’d cast her 
off, and said you’d never speak to her again.” 

“ Folks always make one a deal worse than one is,” said 
John Barton testily. “ She came many a time to our house 
after she left off living with us. Last Sunday se’nnight — 
no ! it was this very last Sunday, she came to drink a cup 
of tea with Mary ; and that was the last time we set eyes 
on her.” 

“Was she any ways different in her manner ? ” asked 
Wilson. 

“ Well, I don’t know. I have thought several times 
since, that she was a bit quieter, and more womanly-like ; 
more gentle, and more blushing, and not so riotous and 
noisy. She comes in towards four o’clock, when afternoon 
church was loosing, and she goes and hangs her bonnet up 
on the old nail we used to call hers, while she lived with us. 
I remember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she sat 
on a low stool by Mary, who was rocking herself, and in 
rather a poor way. She laughed and cried by turns, but all 
so softly and gently, like a child, that I couldn’t find in my 
heart to scold her, especially as Mary was fretting already. 
One thing I do remember I did say, and pretty sharply too. 
She took our little Mary by the waist and ” 

“ Thou must leave off calling her ‘ little ’ Mary, she’s 
growing up into as fine a lass as one can see on a summer’s 
day; more of her mother’s stock than thine,” interrupted 
Wilson. 

“ Well, well, I call her ‘ little,’ because her mother’s name 
is Mary. But as I was saying, she takes Mary in a coaxing 
sort of way, and ‘ Mary,’ says she, ‘ what would you think if 
I sent for you some day and made a lady of you ? ’ So I 
could not stand such talk as that to my girl, and I said, 
‘ Thou’d best not put that nonsense i’ th’ girl’s head, I can 
tell thee ; I’d rather see her earning her bread by the sweat 
of her brow, as the Bible tells her she should do, ay, though 
she never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing 
lady, worrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her 

7 


Mary Barton 

pianny all afternoon, and going to bed without having done 
a good turn to any one of God’s creatures but herself.’ ” 

“ Thou never could abide the gentlefolk,” said Wilson, 
half amused at his friend’s vehemence. 

“ And what good have they ever done me that I should 
like them ? ” asked Barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye : 
and bursting forth he continued, “ If I am sick do they come 
and nurse me ? If my child lies dying (as poor Tom lay, 
with his white wan lips quivering, for want of better food 
than I could give him), does the rich man bring the wine or 
broth that might save his life? If I am out of work for 
weeks in the bad times, and winter comes, with black frost, 
and keen east wind, and there is no cpal for the grate, and 
no clothes for the bed, and the thin bones are seen through 
the ragged clothes, does the rich man share his plenty with 
me, as he ought to do, if his religion wasn’t a humbug? 
When I lie on my death-bed, and Mary (bless her !) stands 
fretting, as I know she will fret,” and here his voice faltered 
a little, “ will a rich lady come and take her to her own home 
if need be, till she can look round, and see what best to do ? 
No, I tell you, it’s the poor, and the poor only, as does such 
things for the poor. Don’t think to come over me with th’ 
old tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of the poor ; 
I say, if they don’t know, they ought to know. We’re their 
slaves as long as we can work; we pile up their fortunes 
with the sweat of our brows, and yet we are to live as 
separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate as 
Dives and Lazarus, with a great gulf betwixt us ; but I know 
who was best off then,” and he wound up his speech with a 
low chuckle that had no mirth in it. 

“ Well, neighbour,” said Wilson, “ all that may be very 
true, but what I want to know now is about Esther — when 
did you last hear of her ? ” 

“ Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a very 
loving way, kissing both wife Mary, and daughter Mary (if I 
must not call her ‘ little ’), and shaking hands with me ; but 
all in a cheerful sort of manner, so we thought nothing about 

8 


A Mysterious Disappearance 

her kisses and shakes. But on Wednesday night comes 
Mrs. Bradshaw’s son with Esther’s hox, and presently Mrs. 
Bradshaw follows with the key ; and when we began to talk, 
we found Esther told her she was coming back to live with 
us, and would pay her week’s money for not giving notice ; 
and on Tuesday night she carried off a little bundle (her best 
clothes were on her back, as I said before) and told Mrs. 
Bradshaw not to hurry herself about the big box, but bring 
it when she had time. So, of course, she thought she should 
find Esther with us ; and when she told her story, my missis 
set up such a screech, and fell down in a dead swoon. Mary 
ran up with water for her mother, and I thought so much 
about my wife, I did not seem to care at all for Esther. But 
the next day I asked all the neighbours (both our own and 
Bradshaw’s) and they’d none of ’em heard or seen nothing 
of her. I even went to a policeman, a good enough sort of 
man, but a fellow I’d never spoken to before because of his 
livery, and I asks him if his ’cuteness could find anything 
out for us. So I believe he asks other policemen ; and one on 
’em had seen a wench, like our Esther, walking very quickly, 
with a bundle under her arm, on Tuesday night, towards 
eight o’clock, and get into a hackney coach, near Hulme 
Church, and we don’t know th’ number, and can’t trace it 
no further. I’m sorry enough for the girl, for bad’s come 
over her, one way or another, but I’m sorrier for my wife. 
She loved her next to me and Mary, and she’s never been 
the same body since poor Tom’s death. However, let’s go 
back to them ; your old woman may have done her good.” 

As they walked homewards with a brisker pace, Wilson 
expressed a wish that they still were the near neighbours 
they once had been. 

“ Still our Alice lives in the cellar under No. 14, in Barber 
Street, and if you’d only speak the word she’d be with you in 
five minutes to keep your wife company when she’s lonesome. 
Though I’m Alice’s brother, and perhaps ought not to say it, 
I will say there’s none more ready to help with heart or hand 
than she is. Though she may have done a hard day’s wash, 

9 


Mary Barton 

there’s not a child ill within the street, but Alice goes to offer 
to sit up, and does sit up too, though may be she’s to be at 
her work by six next morning.” 

“ She’s a poor woman, and can feel for the poor, Wilson,” 
was Barton’s reply; and then he added, “ Thank you kindly 
for your offer, and mayhap I may trouble her to be a bit with 
my wife, for while I’m at work, and Mary’s at school, I know 
she frets above a bit. See, there’s Mary ! ” and the father’s 
eye brightened, as in the distance, among a group of girls, 
he spied his only daughter, a bonny lass of thirteen or so, 
who came bounding along to meet and to greet her father, 
in a manner that showed that the stem-looking man had a 
tender nature within. The two men had crossed the last 
stile, while Mary loitered behind to gather some buds of the 
coming hawthorn, when an overgrown lad came past her, 
and snatched a kiss, exclaiming, “ For old acquaintance’ 
sake, Mary.” 

“ Take that for old acquaintance’ sake, then,” said the 
girl, blushing rosy red, more with anger than shame, as she 
slapped his face. The tones of her voice called back her 
father and his friend, and the aggressor proved to be the 
eldest son of the latter, the senior by eighteen years of his 
little brothers. 

“ Here, children, instead o’ kissing and quarrelling, do ye 
each take a baby, for if Wilson’s arms be like mine they are 
heartily tired.” 

Mary sprang forward to take her father’s charge, with a 
girl’s fondness for infants, and with some little foresight of 
the event soon to happen at home; while young Wilson 
seemed to lose his rough, cubbish nature as he crowed and 
cooed to his little brother. 

“ Twins is a great trial to a poor man, bless ’em,” said 
the half -proud, half -weary father, as he bestowed a smacking 
kiss on the babe ere he parted with it. 


lO 


A Manchester Tea-party 


CHAPTEE II 

A MANCHESTEB TEA-PARTY 

“ Polly, put the kettle on, 

And let’s have tea 1 
Polly, put the kettle on. 

And we’ll all have tea.” 

“Here we are, wife; did’st thou think thou’d lost us?” 
quoth hearty- voiced Wilson, as the two women rose and 
shook themselves in preparation for their homeward walk. 
Mrs. Barton was evidently soothed, if not cheered, by the 
unburdening of her fears and thoughts to her friend ; and 
her approving look went far to second her husband’s invita- 
tion that the whole party should adjourn from Green Heys 
Fields to tea, at the Bartons’ house. The only faint opposi- 
tion was raised by Mrs. Wilson, on account of the lateness 
of the hour at which they would probably return, which she 
feared on her babies’ account. 

“ Now, hold your tongue, missis, will you,” said her 
husband good-temperedly. “ Don’t you know them brats 
never goes to sleep till long past ten? and haven’t you a 
shawl, under which you can tuck one lad’s head, as safe as 
a bird’s under its wing ? And as for t’other one. I’ll put it 
in my pocket rather than not stay, now we are this far away 
from Ancoats.” 

“ Or, I can lend you another shawl,” suggested Mrs. 
Barton. 

“ Ay, anything rather than not stay.” 

The matter being decided the party proceeded home, 
through many half-finished streets, all so like one another, 
that you might have easily been bewildered and lost your 
way. Not a step, however, did our friends lose ; down this 
entry, cutting off that corner, until they turned out of one of 
these innumerable streets into a little paved court, having 


II 


Mary Barton 

the backs of houses at the end opposite to the opening, and 
a gutter running through the middle to carry off household 
slops, washing suds, &c. The women who lived in the court 
were busy taking in strings of caps, frocks, and various 
articles of linen, which hung from side to side, dangling so 
low, that if our friends had been a few minutes sooner, they 
would have had to stoop very much, or else the half-wet 
clothes would have flapped in their faces : but although the 
evening seemed yet early when they were in the open fields 

among the pent-up houses, night, with its mists and its 

darkness, had already begun to fall. 

Many greetings were given and exchanged between the 
Wilsons and these women, for not long ago they had also 
dwelt in this court. 

Two rude lads, standing at a disorderly looking house- 
door, exclaimed, as Mary Barton (the daughter) passed, 

“ Eh, look ! Polly Barton’s gotten * a sweetheart.” 

Of course this referred to young Wilson, who stole a 
look to see how Mary took the idea. He saw her assume 
the air of a young fury, and to his next speech she answered 
not a word. 

Mrs. Barton produced the key of the door from her 
pocket ; and on entering the house-place it seemed as if they 
were in total darkness, except one bright spot, which might 
be a cat’s eye, or might be, what it was, a red-hot fire, 
smouldering under a large piece of coal, which John Barton 
immediately applied himself to break up, and the effect 
instantly produced was warm and glowing light in every 
corner of the room. To add to this (although the coarse 
yellow glare seemed lost in the ruddy glow from the fire), 
Mrs. Barton lighted a dip by sticking it in the fire, and 
having placed it satisfactorily in a tin candlestick, began to 
look further about her, on hospitable thoughts intent. The 
room was tolerably large, and possessed many conveniences. 
On the right of the door, as you entered, was a longish 

* “ For he had geten him yet no benefice.” 

Prologue to Canterbury Tales. 


12 


A Manchester Tea-party 

window, with a broad ledge. On each side of this, hung 
blue-and-white check curtains, which were now drawn, to 
shut in the friends met to enjoy themselves. Two geraniums, 
unpruned and leafy, which stood on the sill, formed a further 
defence from out-door pryers. In the corner between the 
window and the fireside was a cupboard, apparently full of 
plates and dishes, cups and saucers, and some more non- 
descript articles, for which one would have fancied their 
possessors could find no use — such as triangular pieces of 
glass to save carving knives and forks from dirtying table- 
cloths. However, it was evident Mrs. Barton was proud of 
her crockery and glass, for she left her cupboard door open, 
with a glance round of satisfaction and pleasure. On the 
opposite side to the door and window was the staircase, and 
two doors ; one of which (the nearest to the fire) led into a 
sort of little back kitchen, where dirty work, such as washing 
up dishes, might be done, and whose shelves served as 
larder, and pantry, and store-room, and all. The other door, 
which was considerably lower, opened into the coal-hole — 
the slanting closet under the stairs.; from which, to the fire- 
place, there was a gay-coloured piece of oil-cloth laid. The 
place seemed almost crammed with furniture (sure sign of 
good times among the mills). Beneath the window was a 
dresser, with three deep drawers. Opposite the fire-place 
was a table, which I should call a Pembroke, only that it 
was made of deal, and I cannot tell how far such a name 
may be applied to such humble material. On it, resting 
against the wall, was a bright green japanned tea-tray, 
having a couple of scarlet lovers embracing in the middle. 
The fire-light danced merrily on this, and really (setting all 
taste but that of a child’s aside) it gave a richness of colour- 
ing to that side of the room. It was in some measure 
propped up by a crimson tea-caddy, also of japan ware. A 
round table on one branching leg, really for use, stood in the 
corresponding corner to the cupboard; and, if you can 
picture all this, with a washy, but clean stencilled pattern 
on the walls, you can form some idea of John Barton’s home^ 

13 


Mary Barton 

The tray was soon hoisted down, and before the merry 
clatter of cups and saucers began, the women disburdened 
themselves of their out-of-door things, and sent Mary upstairs 
with them. Then came a long whispering, and chinking of 
money, to which Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were too polite to 
attend ; knowing, as they did full well, that it all related to 
the preparations for hospitality; hospitality that, in then- 
turn, they should have such pleasure in offering. So they 
tried to be busily occupied with the children, and not to hear 
Mrs. Barton’s directions to Mary. 

“ Eun, Mary, dear, just round the corner, and get some 
fresh eggs at Tipping’s (you may get one apiece, that will be 
fivepence), and see if he has any nice ham cut, that he would 
let us have a pound of.” 

“ Say two pounds, missis, and don’t be stingy,” chimed 
in the husband. 

“ Well, a pound and a half, Mary. And get it Cumber- 
land ham, for Wilson comes from there-away, and it will 
have a sort of relish of home with it he’ll like, — and Mary ” 
(seeing the lassie fain to be off), “ you must get a penny- 
worth of milk and a loaf of bread — mind you get it fresh and 
new — and, and — that’s all, Mary.” 

“ No, it’s not all,” said her husband. “ Thou must get 
sixpennyworth of rum, to warm the tea ; thou’ll get it at the 
‘ Grapes.’ And thou just go to Alice Wilson ; he says she 
lives just round the corner, under 14 Barber Street” (this 
was addressed to his wife) ; “ and tell her to come and take 
her tea with us ; she’ll hke to see her brother. I’ll be bound, 
let alone Jane and the twins.” 

“ If she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer, for 
we have but half-a-dozen, and here’s six of us,” said Mrs. 
Barton. 

“ Pooh, pooh, Jem and Mary can drink out of one, 
surely.” 

But Mary secretly determined to take care that Ahce 
brought her tea-cup and saucer, if the alternative was to be 
her sharing anything with Jem. 

14 


A Manchester Tea-party 

Alice Wilson had but just come in. She had been out 
all day in the fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and 
medicine, for in addition to her invaluable qualities as a sick 
nurse and her worldly occupations as a washerwoman, she 
added a considerable knowledge of hedge and field simples ; 
and on fine days, when no more profitable occupation offered 
itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and meadows as 
far as her legs could carry her. This evening she had 
returned loaded with nettles, and her first object was to 
light a candle and see to hang them up in bunches in every 
available place in her cellar room. It was the perfection of 
cleanliness ; in one corner stood the modest-looking bed, with 
a check curtain at the head, the whitewashed wall filling up 
the place where the corresponding one should have been. 
The floor was bricked, and scrupulously clean, although so 
damp that it seemed as if the last washing would never dry 
up. As the cellar window looked into an area in the street, 
down which boys might throw stones, it was protected by 
an outside shutter, and was oddly festooned with all manner 
of hedge-row, ditch, and field plants, which we are accus- 
tomed to call valueless, but which have a powerful effect 
either for good or for evil, and are consequently much used 
among the poor. The room was strewed, hung, and darkened 
with these bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odour in 
their process of drying. In one corner was a sort of broad 
hanging shelf, made of old planks, where some old hoards 
of Alice’s were kept. Her little bit of crockery-ware was 
ranged on the mantelpiece, where also stood her candlestick 
and box of matches. A small cupboard contained at the 
bottom coals, and at the top her bread and basin of oatmeal, 
her frying-pan, teapot, and a small tin saucepan, which 
served as a kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little 
messes bf broth which Alice was sometimes able to manu- 
facture for a sick neighbour. 

After her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was busy 
trying to light her fire with the damp coals, and half- green 
sticks, when Mary knocked. 


15 


Mary Barton 

“ Come in,” said Alice, remembering, however, that she 
had barred the door for the night, and hastening to make it 
possible for any one to come in. 

“ Is that you, Mary Barton ? ” exclaimed she, as the 
light from the candle streamed on the girl’s face. “ How 
you are grown since I used to see you at my brother’s ! 
Come in, lass, come in.” 

“ Please,” said Mary, almost breathless, “ mother says 
you’re to come to tea, and bring your cup and saucer, for 
George and Jane Wilson is with us, and the twins, and Jem. 
And you’re to make haste, please.” 

“ I’m sure it’s very neighbourly and kind in your mother, 
and I’ll come, with many thanks. Stay, Mary, has your 
mother got any nettles for spring drink ? If she hasn’t I’ll 
take her some.” 

“ No, I don’t think she has.” 

Mary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a girl of 
thirteen, fend of power, was the more interesting part of her 
errand — the money-spending part. And well and ably did 
she perform her business, returning home with a little bottle 
of rum, and the eggs in one hand, while her other was filled 
with some excellent red-and-white, smoke-flavoured, Cumber- 
land Imm, wrapped up in paper. 

She was at home, and frying ham, before Alice had 
chosen her nettles, put out her candle, locked her door, and 
walked in a very foot-sore manner as far as John Barton’s. 
What an aspect of comfort did his house-place present, after 
her humble cellar ! She did not think of comparing ; but for 
all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire, the bright light 
that revelled in every corner of the room, the savoury smells, 
the comfortable sounds of a boiling kettle, and the hissing, 
frizzling ham. With a little old-fashioned curtsey she shut 
the door, and replied with a loving heart to the boisterous 
and surprised greeting of her brother. 

And now all preparations being made, the party sat 
down ; Mrs. Wilson in the post of honour, the rocking-chair, 
on the right-hand side of the fire, nursing her baby, while its 

i6 


A Manchester Tea-party 

father, in an opposite arm-chair, tried vainly to quieten the 
other with bread soaked in milk. 

Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do anything but 
sit at the tea-table and make tea, though in her heart she 
longed to be able to superintend the frying of the ham, and 
cast many an anxious look at Mary as she broke the eggs 
and turned the ham, with a very comfortable portion of 
confidence in her own culinary powers. Jem stood awk- 
wardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly 
to his aunt’s speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air 
of being a little boy; whereas he considered himself as a 
young man, and not so very young neither, as in two months 
he would be eighteen. Barton vibrated between the fire and 
the tea-table, his only drawback being a fancy that every 
now and then his wife’s face flushed and contracted as if in 
pain. 

At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, 
cups and saucers made a noise, but human voices were still, 
for human beings were hungry and had no time to speak. 
Alice first broke silence ; holding her tea-cup with the 
manner of one proposing a toast, she said, “ Here’s to absent 
friends. Friends may meet, but mountains never.” 

It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly 
felt. Every one thought of Esther, the absent Esther ; and 
Mrs. Barton put down her food, and could not hide the fast- 
dropping tears. Alice could have bitten her tongue out. 

It was a wet blanket to the evening ; for though all had 
been said and suggested in the fields that could be said or 
suggested, every one had a wish to say something in the way 
of comfort to poor Mrs. Barton, and a dislike to talk about 
anything else while her tears fell fast and scalding. So 
George Wilson, his wife, and children set off early home, not 
before (in spite of mal-a-propos speeches) they had expressed 
a wish that such meetings might often take place, and not 
before John Barton had given his hearty consent; and 
declared that as soon as ever his wife was well again they 
would have just such another evening. 

17 


c 


Mary Barton 

“ I will take care not to come and spoil it,” thought 
poor Alice, and going up to Mrs. Barton, she took her hand 
almost humbly, and said, “ You don’t know how sorry I am 
I said it.” 

To her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into 
her eyes, Mary Barton put her arms round her neck, and 
kissed the self -reproaching Alice. “ You didn’t mean any 
harm, and it was me as was so fooHsh ; only this work about 
Esther, and not knowing where she is, lies so heavy on my 
heart. Good-night, and never think no more about it. God 
bless you, Alice.” 

Many and many a time, as Alice reviewed that evening 
in her after life, did she bless Mary Barton for these kind 
and thoughtful words. But just then all she could say was, 
“ Good-night, Mary, and may God bless you” 


CHAPTEE III 

JOHN barton’s great TROUBLE 

“ But when the mom came dim and sad. 

And chill with early showers, 

Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
Another morn than ours.” 

Hood. 

In the middle of that same night a neighbour of the Bartons 
was roused from her sound, well-earned sleep, by a knocking, 
which had at first made part of her dream ; but starting up, 
as soon as she became convinced of its reality, she opened 
the window, and asked who was there ? 

“ Me — John Barton,” answered he, in a voice tremulous 
with agitation. “ My missis is in labour, and, for the love of 
God, step in while I run for th’ doctor, for she’s fearful bad.” 
While the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the 


John Barton’s Great Trouble 

window still open, she heard the cries of agony, which 
resounded in the little court in the stillness of the night. In 
less than five minutes she was standing by Mrs. Barton’s 
bed-side, relieving the terrified Mary, who went about where 
she was told, like an automaton ; her eyes tearless, her face 
calm, though deadly pale, and uttering no sound, except 
when her teeth chattered for very nervousness. 

The cries grew worse. 

The doctor was very long in hearing the repeated rings 
at his night-bell, and still longer in understanding who it 
was that made this sudden call upon his services ; and then 
he begged Barton just to wait while he dressed himself, 
in order that no time might be lost in finding the court and 
house. Barton absolutely stamped with impatience, outside 
the doctor’s door, before he came down ; and walked so fast 
homewards, that the medical man several times asked him 
to go slower. 

“ Is she so very bad ? ” asked he. 

“ Worse, much worser than I ever saw her before,” 
replied John. 

No ! she was not — she was at peace. The cries were 
still for ever. John had no time for listening. He opened 
the latched door, stayed not to light a candle for the mere 
ceremony of showing his companion up the stairs, so well 
known to himself ; but, in two minutes, was in the room, 
where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all the 
power of his strong heart. The doctor stumbled upstairs by 
the fire-light, and met the awestruck look of the neighbour, 
which at once told him the state of things. The room was 
still, as he, with habitual tiptoe step, approached the poor 
frail body, that nothing now could more disturb. Her 
daughter knelt by the bed-side, her face buried in the clothes, 
which were almost crammed into her mouth, to keep down 
the choking sobs. The husband stood like one stupefied. 
The doctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and then 
approaching Barton, said, “ You must go downstairs. This 
is a great shock, but bear it like a man. Go down.” 

19 


Mary Barton 

He went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. 
He had no hope. The look of death was too clear upon her 
face. Still, when he heard one or two unusual noises, the 
thought burst on him that it might only be a trance, a fit 
a — he did not well know what — but not death 1 Oh, not 
death ! And he was starting up to go upstairs again, when 
the doctor’s heavy cautious creaking footstep was heard on 
the stairs. Then he knew what it really was in the chamber 
above. 

“ Nothing could have saved her — there has been some 
shock to the system ” — and so he went on ; but to unheeding 
ears, which yet retained his words to ponder on ; words not 
for immediate use in conveying sense, but to be laid by, in 
the store-house of memory, for a more convenient season. 
The doctor, seeing the state of the case, grieved for the man ; 
and, very sleepy, thought it best to go, and accordingly 
wished him good-night — but there was no answer, so he let 
himself out ; and Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so 
rigid, so still. He heard the sounds above, too, and knew 
what they meant. He heard the stiff unseasoned drawer, in 
which his wife kept her clothes, pulled open. He saw the 
neighbour come down, and blunder about in search of soap 
and water. He knew well what she wanted, and why she 
wanted them, but he did not speak, nor offer to help. At 
last she went, with some kindly meant words (a text of 
comfort, which fell upon a deafened ear), and something 
about “ Mary,” but which Mary, in his bewildered state, he 
could not tell. 

He tried to realise it — to think it possible. And then his 
mind wandered off to other days, to far different times. He 
thought of their courtship ; of his first seeing her, an awkward 
beautiful rustic, far too shiftless for the delicate factory work 
to which she was apprenticed ; of his first gift to her, a bead 
necklace, which had long ago been put by, in one of the deep 
drawers of the dresser, to be kept for Mary. He wondered 
if it was there yet, and with a strange curiosity he got up to 
feel for it ; for the fire by this time was well nigh out, and 

20 


John Barton’s Great Trouble 

candle he had none. His groping hand fell on the piled-up 
tea-things, which at his desire she had left unwashed till 
morning— they were all so tired. He was reminded of one 
of the daily little actions, which acquire such power when 
they have been performed for the last time by one we love. 
He began to think over his wife’s daily round of duties : and 
something in the remembrance that these would never more 
be done by her, touched the source of tears, and he cried 
aloud. Poor Mary, meanwhile, had mechanically helped the 
neighbour in all the last attentions to the dead ; and when 
she was kissed and spoken to soothingly, tears stole quietly 
down her cheeks ; but she reserved the luxury of a full burst 
of grief till she should be alone. She shut the chamber-door 
softly, after the neighbour was gone, and then shook the bed 
by which she knelt with her agony of sorrow. She repeated, 
over and over again, the same words; the same vain, un- 
answered address to her who was no more. “ Oh, mother ! 
mother, are you really dead ! Oh, mother, mother ! ” 

At last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind 
that her violence of grief might disturb her father. All was 
still below. She looked on the face so changed, and yet so 
strangely like. She bent down to kiss it. The cold unyield- 
ing flesh struck a shudder to her heart, and hastily obeying 
her impulse, she grasped the candle, and opened the door. 
Then she heard the sobs of her father’s grief ; and quickly, 
quietly, stealing down the stops, she knelt by him, and kissed 
his hand. He took no notice at first, for his burst of grief 
would not be controlled. But when her shriller sobs, her 
terrified cries (which she could not repress), rose upon his 
ear, he checked himself. 

“ Child, we must be all to one another, now she is gone,” 
whispered he. 

“ Oh, father, what can I do for you ? Do tell me ! I’ll 
do anything.” 

“ I know thou wilt. Thou must not fret thyself ill, that’s 
the first thing I ask. Thou must leave me and go to bed 
now, like a good girl as thou art.” 

21 


Mary Barton 

“ Leave you, father I oh, don’t say so.” 

“ Ay, but thou must : thou must go to bed, and try and 
sleep ; thou’lt have enough to do and to bear, poor wench, 
to-morrow.” 

Mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went upstairs 
to the little closet, where she slept. She thought it was of 
no use undressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so 
threw herself on her bed in her clothes, and before ten 
minutes had passed away, the passionate grief of youth had 
subsided into sleep. 

Barton had been roused by his daughter’s entrance, both 
from his stupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. He 
could think on what was to be done, could plan for the 
funeral, could calculate the necessity of soon returning to his 
work, as the extravagance of the past night would leave 
them short of money if he long remained away from the 
mill. He was in a club, so that money was provided for the 
burial. These things settled in his own mind, he recalled 
the doctor’s words, and bitterly thought of the shock his poor 
wife had so recently had, in the mysterious disappearance of 
her cherished sister. His feelings towards Esther almost 
amounted to curses. It was she who had brought on all this 
sorrow. Her giddiness, her lightness of conduct had wrought 
this woe. His previous thoughts about her had been tinged 
with wonder and pity, but now he hardened his heart against 
her for ever. 

One of the good influences over John Barton’s life had 
departed that night. One of the ties which bound him down 
to the gentle humanities of earth was loosened, and hence- 
forward the neighbours all remarked he was a changed man. 
His gloom and his sternness became habitual instead of 
occasional. He was more obstinate. But never to Mary. 
Between the father and the daughter there existed in full 
force that mysterious bond which unites those who have 
been loved by one who is now dead and gone. While he 
was harsh and silent to others, he humoured Mary with 
tender love ; she had more of her own way than is common 

22 


John Barton’s Great Trouble 

in any rank with girls of her age. Part of this was the 
necessity of the case ; for of course all the money went 
through her hands, and the household arrangements were 
guided by her will and pleasure. But part was her father’s 
indulgence, for he left her, with full trust in her unusual 
sense and spirit, to choose her own associates, and her own 
times for seeing them. 

With all this, Mary had not her father’s confidence in the 
matters which now began to occupy him, heart and soul ; 
she was aware that he had joined clubs, and become an 
active member of the Trades’ Union, but it was hardly likely 
that a girl of Mary’s age (even when two or three years had 
elapsed since her mother’s death) should care much for the 
differences between the employers and the employed, — an 
eternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, 
which, however it may be lulled for a time, is sure to break 
forth again with fresh violence at any depression of trade, 
showing that, in its apparent quiet, the ashes had still 
smouldered in the breasts of a few. 

Among these few was John Barton. At all times it is a 
bewildering thing to the poor weaver to see his employer 
removing from house to house, each one grander than the 
last, till he ends in building one more magnificent than all, 
or withdraws his money from the concern, or sells his mill, 
to buy an estate in the country, while all the time the 
weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makers of 
this wealth, is struggling on for bread for his children, through 
the vicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer hands 
employed, &c. And when he knows trade is bad, and could 
understand (at least partially) that there are not buyers 
enough in the market to purchase the goods already made, 
and consequently that there is no demand for more ; when 
he would bear and endure much without complaining, could 
he also see that his employers were bearing their share ; he 
is, I say, bewildered and (to use his own word) “ aggravated ” 
to see that all goes on just as usual with the mill-owners. 
Large houses are still occupied, while spinners’ and weavers’ 

23 


Mary Barton 

cottages stand empty, because the families that once filled 
them are obliged to live in rooms or cellars. Carriages still 
roll along the streets, concerts are still crowded by subscribers, 
the shops for expensive luxuries still find daily customers, 
while the workman loiters away his unemployed time in 
watching these things, and thinking of the pale, uncom- 
plaining wife at home, and the wailing children asking in 
vain for enough of food, — of the sinking health, of the dying 
life, of those near and dear to him. The contrast is too 
great. Why should he alone suffer from bad times ? 

I know that this is not really the case ; and I know what 
is the truth in such matters : but what I wish to impress is 
what the workman feels and thinks. True, that with child- 
like improvidence good times will often dissipate his 
grumbling, and make him forget all prudence and foresight. 

But there are earnest men among these people, men who 
have endured wrongs without complaining, but without ever 
forgetting or forgiving those whom (they believe) have caused 
all this woe. 

Among these was John Barton. His parents had suffered ; 
his mother had died from absolute want of the necessaries of 
life. He himself was a good, steady workman, and, as such, 
pretty certain of steady employment. But he spent all he 
got with the confidence (you may also call it improvidence) 
of one who was willing, and believed himself able, to supply 
all his wants by his own exertions. And when his master 
suddenly failed, and all hands in the mill were turned back, 
one Tuesday morning, with the news that Mr. Hunter had 
stopped. Barton had only a few shillings to rely on ; but he 
had good heart of being employed at some other mill, and 
accordingly, before returning home, he spent some hours in 
going from factory to factory, asking for work. But at every 
mill was some sign of depression of trade ! some were working 
short hours, some were turning off hands, and for weeks 
Barton was out of work, living on credit. It was during this 
time that his little son, the apple of his eye, the cynosure of 
all his strong power of love, fell ill of the scarlet fever. They 

24 


John Barton’s Great Trouble 

dragged him through the crisis, but his life hung on a 
gossamer thread. Everything, the doctor said, depended on 
good nourishment, on generous living, to keep up the little 
fellow’s strength, in the prostration in which the fever had 
left him. Mocking words ! when the commonest food in the 
house would not furnish one little meal. Barton tried credit ; 
but it was worn out at the little provision shops, which were 
now suffering in their turn. He thought it would be no sin 
to steal, and would have stolen ; but he could not get the 
opportunity in the few days the child lingered. Hungry 
himself, almost to an animal pitch of ravenousness, but with 
the bodily pain swallowed up in anxiety for his little sinking 
lad, he stood at one of the shop windows where all edible 
luxuries are displayed ; haunches of venison, Stilton cheeses, 
moulds of jelly — all appetising sights, to the common passer- 
by. And out of this shop came Mrs. Hunter ! She crossed to 
her carriage, followed by the shopman loaded with purchases 
for a party. The door was quickly slammed to, and she drove 
away ; and Barton returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath 
in his heart, to see his only boy a corpse ! 

You can fancy, now, the hoards of vengeance in his heart 
against the employers. For there are never wanting those 
who, either in speech or in print, find it their interest to 
cherish such feelings in the working classes ; who know how 
and when to rouse the dangerous power at their command ; 
and who use their knowledge with unrelenting purpose to 
either party. 

So while Mary took her own way, growing more spirited 
every day, and growing in her beauty too, her father was 
chairman at many a Trades’ Union meeting ; a friend of 
delegates, and ambitious of being a delegate himself ; a 
Chartist, and ready to do anything for his order. 

But now times were good; and all these feelings were 
theoretical, not practical. His most practical thought was 
getting Mary apprenticed to a dressmaker ; for he had never 
left off disliking a factory life for a girl, on more accounts 
than one. 


25 


Mary Barton 

Mary must do something. The factories being, as I said, 
out of the question, there were two things open — going out 
to service and the dressmaking business; and against the 
first of these, Mary set herself with all the force of her strong 
will. What that will might have been able to achieve had 
her father been against her, I cannot tell ; but he disliked 
the idea of parting with her, who was the light of his hearth ; 
the voice of his otherwise silent home. Besides, with his 
ideas and feelings towards the higher classes, he considered 
domestic servitude as a species of slavery ; a pampering of 
artificial wants on the one side, a giving up of every right 
of leisure by day and quiet rest by night on the other. How 
far his strong exaggerated feelings had any foundation in 
truth, it is for you to judge. I am afraid that Mary’s deter- 
mination not to go to service arose from far less sensible 
thoughts on the subject than her father’s. Three years of 
independence of action (since her mother’s death such a 
time had now elapsed) had little inclined her to submit to 
rules as to hours and associates, to regulate her dress by 
a mistress’s ideas of propriety, to lose the dear feminine 
privileges of gossiping with a merry neighbour, and working 
night and day to help one who was sorrowful. Besides all 
this, the sayings of her absent, the mysterious aunt Esther, 
had an unacknowledged influence over Mary. She knew 
she was very pretty; the factory people as they poured 
from the mills, and in their freedom told the truth (whatever 
it might be) to every passer-by, had early let Mary into 
the secret of her beauty. If their remarks had fallen on an 
unheeding ear, there were always young men enough, in a 
different rank from her own, who were willing to compliment 
the pretty weaver’s daughter as they met her in the streets. 
Besides, trust a girl of sixteen for knowing it well if she is 
pretty ; concerning her plainness she may be ignorant. So 
with this consciousness she had early determined that her 
beauty should make her a lady ; the rank she coveted the 
more for her father’s abuse ; the rank to which she firmly 
believed her lost aunt Esther had arrived. Now, while a 

26 


John Barton’s Great Trouble 

servant must often drudge and be dirty, must be known as 
bis servant by all who visited at her master’s house, a dress- 
maker’s apprentice must (or so Mary thought) be always 
dressed with a certain regard to appearances; must never 
soil her hands, and need never redden or dirty her face with 
hard labour. Before my telhng you so truly what folly Mary 
felt or thought, injures her without redemption in your 
opinion, think what are the silly fancies of sixteen years of 
age in every class, and under all circumstances. The end 
of all the thoughts of father and daughter was, as I said 
before, Mary was to be a dressmaker; and her ambition 
prompted her unwilhng father to apply at all the first estab- 
lishments, to know on what terms of painstaking and zeal 
his daughter might be admitted into ever so humble a 
workwoman’s situation. But high premiums were asked at 
all ; poor man ! he might have known that without giving 
up a day’s work to ascertain the fact. He would have been 
indignant, indeed, had he known that; if Mary had accom- 
panied him, the case might have been rather different, as her 
beauty would have made her desirable as a show-woman. 
Then he tried second-rate places ; at all the payment of a 
sum of money was necessary, and money he had none. 
Disheartened and angry, he went home at night, declaring 
it was time lost; that dressmaking was at all events a 
troublesome business, and not worth learning. Mary saw 
that the grapes were sour, and the next day she set out 
herself, as her father could not afford to lose another day’s 
work ; and before night (as yesterday’s experience had con- 
siderably lowered her ideas) she had engaged herself as 
apprentice (so called, though there were no deeds or in- 
dentures to the bond) to a certain Miss Simmonds, milliner 
and dressmaker, in a respectable little street leading off 
Ardwick Green, where her business was duly announced in 
gold letters on a black ground, enclosed in a bird’s-eye maple 
frame, and stuck in the front parlour window ; where the 
workwomen were called “her young ladies;” and where 
Mary was to work for two years without any remuneration, 

27 


Mary Barton 

on consideration of being taught the business ; and where 
afterwards she was to dine and have tea, with a small 
quarterly salary (paid quarterly because so much more 
genteel than by week), a very small one, divisible into a 
minute weekly pittance. In summer she was to be there 
by six, bringing her day’s meals during the first two years ; 
in winter she was not to come till after breakfast. Her time 
for returning home at night must always depend upon the 
quantity of work Miss Simmonds had to do. 

And Mary was satisfied ; and seeing this, her father was 
contented too, although his words were grumbling and 
morose ; but Mary knew his ways, and coaxed and planned 
for the future so cheerily, that both went to bed with easy 
if not happy hearts. 


» 


CHAPTEK IV 

OLD Alice’s history 

“ To envy nought beneath the ample sky ; 

To mourn no evil deed, no hour misspent ; 

And like a living violet, silently 

Return in sweets to Heaven what goodness lent. 

Then bend beneath the chastening shower content.” 

Elliott. 

Another year passed on. The waves of time seemed long 
since to have swept away all trace of poor Mary Barton. 
But her husband still thought of her, although with a calm 
and quiet grief, in the silent watches of the night : and Mary 
would start from her hard-earned sleep, and think, in her 
half-dreamy, half-awakened state, she saw her mother stand 
by her bedside, as she used to do “ in the days of long ago ; ” 
with a shaded candle and an expression of ineffable tender- 
ness, while she looked on her sleeping child. But Mary 

28 


Old Alice’s History 

rabbed her eyes and sank back on her pillow, awake, and 
knowing it was a dream ; and still, in all her troubles and 
perplexities, her heart called on her mother for aid, and she 
thought, “ If mother had but lived, she would have helped 
me.” Forgetting that the woman’s sorrows are far more 
difl&cult to mitigate than a child’s, even by the mighty power 
of a mother’s love ; and unconscious of the fact, that she was 
far superior in sense and spirit to the mother she mourned. 
Aunt Esther was still mysteriously absent, and people had 
grown weary of wondering, and begun to forget. Barton still 
attended his club, and was an active member of a Trades’ 
Union ; indeed, more frequently than ever, since the time of 
Mary’s return in the evening was so uncertain ; and, as she 
occasionally, in very busy times, remained all night. His 
chiefest friend was still George Wilson, although he had no 
great sympathy on the questions that agitated Barton’s mind. 
But their hearts were bound by old ties to one another, and 
the remembrance of former things gave an unspoken charm 
to their meetings. Our old friend, the cub-like lad, Jem 
Wilson, had shot up into the powerful, well-made young man, 
with a sensible face enough; nay, a face that might have 
been handsome, had it not been here and there marked by 
the small-pox. He worked with one of the great firms of 
engineers, who send from out their towns of workshops 
engines and machinery to the dominions of the Czar and the 
Sultan. His father and mother were never weary of praising 
Jem, at all which commendation pretty Mary Barton would 
toss her head, seeing clearly enough that they wished her 
to understand what a good husband he would make, and to 
favour his love, about which he never dared to speak, whatever 
eyes and looks revealed. 

One day, in the early winter time, when people were 
provided with warm substantial gowns, not likely soon to 
wear out, and when, accordingly, business was rather slack 
at Miss Simmonds’, Mary met Alice Wilson, coming home 
from her half-day’s work at some tradesman’s house. Mary 
and Alice had always liked each other ; indeed, Alice looked 

29 


Mary Barton 

with particular interest on the motherless girl, the daughter 
of her whose forgiving kiss had comforted her in many sleep- 
less hours. So there was a warm greeting between the tidy 
old woman and the blooming young work-girl; and then 
Ahce ventured to ask if she would come in and take her tea 
with her that very evening. 

“ You’ll think it dull enough to come just to sit with an 
old woman like me, but there’s a tidy young lass as lives in 
the floor above, who does plain work, and now and then a 
bit in your own line, Mary ; she’s grand-daughter to old Job 
Legh, a spinner, and a good girl she is. Do come, Mary ! 
I’ve a terrible wish to make you knowti to each other. She’s 
a genteel-looking lass, too.” 

At the beginning of this speech Mary had feared the 
intended visitor was to be no other than Alice’s nephew ; but 
Alice was too delicate-minded to plan a meeting, even for 
her dear Jem, when one would have been an unwilling 
party ; and Mary, relieved from her apprehension by the 
conclusion, gladly agreed to come. How busy Alice felt ! it 
was not often she had any one to tea ; and now her sense of 
the duties of a hostess were almost too much for her. She 
made haste home, and lighted the unwilhng fire, borrowing 
a pair of bellows to make it burn the faster. For herself 
she was always patient; she let the coals take their time. 
Then she put on her pattens, and went to fill her kettle at 
the pump in the next court, and on her way she borrowed a 
cup ; of odd saucers she had plenty, serving as plates when 
occasion required. Half an ounce of tea and a quarter of a 
pound of butter went far to absorb her morning’s wages ; 
but this was an unusual occasion. In general, she used herb- 
tea for herself, when at home, unless some thoughtful mistress 
made a present of tea-leaves from her more abundant house- 
hold. The two chairs drawn out for visitors, and duly swept 
and dusted ; an old board arranged with some skill upon two 
old candle boxes set on end (rather rickety, to be sure, but 
she knew the seat of old, and when to sit hghtly ; indeed the 
whole affair was more for apparent dignity of position thac 

30 


Old Alice’s History 

for any real ease) ; a little, very little round table, put just 
before the fire, which by this time was blazing merrily ; her 
unlacquered ancient, third-hand tea-tray arranged with a 
black tea-pot, two cups with a red and white pattern, and 
one with the old friendly willow pattern, and saucers, not to 
match (on one of the extra supply the lump of butter 
flourished away) ; all these preparations complete, Alice 
began to look about her with satisfaction, and a sort of 
wonder what more could be done to add to the comfort of 
the evening. She took one of the chairs away from its 
appropriate place by the table, and putting it close to the 
broad large hanging shelf I told you about when I first 
described her cellar-dwelling, and mounting on it, she pulled 
towards her an old deal box, and took thence a quantity of 
the oat bread of the north, the “ clap-bread ” of Cumberland 
and Westmoreland, and descending carefully with the thin 
cakes, threatening to break to pieces in her hand, she placed 
them on the bare table, with the belief that her visitors would 
have an unusual treat in eating the bread of her childhood. 
She brought out a good piece of a four-pound loaf of common 
household bread as well, and then sat down to rest, really to 
rest, and not to pretend, on one of the rush-bottomed chairs. 
The candle was ready to be lighted, the kettle boiled, the tea 
was awaiting its doom in its paper parcel ; all was ready. 

A knock at the door ! It was Margaret, the young work- 
woman who lived in the rooms above, who having heard the 
bustle, and the subsequent quiet, began to think it was time 
to pay her visit below. She was a sallow, unhealthy, sweet- 
looking young woman, with a careworn look ; her dress was 
humble and very simple, consisting of some kind of dark 
stuff gown, her neck being covered by a drab shawl or large 
handkerchief, pinned down behind and at the sides in front. 
The old woman gave her a hearty greeting, and made her 
sit down on the chair she had just left, while she balanced 
herself on the board seat, in order that Margaret might 
think it was quite her free and independent choice to sit 
there. 


31 


Mary Barton 

“ I cannot think what keeps Mary .Barton. She’s quite 
grand with her late hours,” said Alice, as Mary still delayed. 

The truth was, Mary was dressing herself ; yes, to come 
to poor old Alice’s — she thought it worth while to consider 
what gown she should put on. It was not for Alice, how- 
ever, you may be pretty sure ; no, they knew each other too 
well. But Mary liked making an impression, and in this it 
must be owned she was pretty often gratified — and there 
was this strange girl to consider just now. So she put on 
her pretty new blue merino, made tight to her throat, her 
little linen collar and linen cuffs, and sallied forth to impress 
poor gentle Margaret. She certainly succeeded. Alice, who 
never thought much about beauty, had never told Margaret 
how pretty Mary was ; and, as she came in half-blushing at 
her own self-consciousness, Margaret could hardly take her 
eyes off her, and Mary put down her long black lashes with 
a sort of dislike of the very observation she had taken such 
pains to secure. Can you fancy the bustle of Alice to make 
the tea, to pour it out, and sweeten it to their liking, to help 
and help again to clap-bread and bread and butter? Can 
you fancy the delight with which she watched her piled-up 
clap-bread disappear before the hungry girls and listened to 
the praises of her home-remembered dainty ? 

“ My mother used to send me some clap-bread by any 
north-country person — bless her ! She knew how good such 
things taste when far away from home. Not but what every 
one likes it. When I was in service my fellow-servants 
were always glad to share with me. Eh, it’s a long time 
ago, yon.” 

“ Do tell us about it, Alice,” said Margaret. 

“ Why, lass, there’s nothing to tell. There was more 
mouths at home than could be fed. Tom, that’s Will’s 
father (you don’t know Will, but he’s a sailor to foreign 
parts), had come to Manchester, and sent word what terrible 
lots of work was to be had, both for lads and lasses. So 
father sent George first (you know George, well enough, 
Mary), and then work was scarce out toward Burton, where 

32 


old Alice’s History 

we lived, and father said I maun try and get a place. And 
George wrote as how wages were far higher in Manchester 
than Milnthorpe or Lancaster ; and, lasses, I was young and 
thoughtless, and thought it was a fine thing to go so far 
from home. So, one day, th’ butcher he brings us a letter 
fra George, to say he’d heard on a place — and I was all agog 
to go, and father was pleased like; but mother said little, 
and that little was very quiet. I’ve often thought she was 
a bit hurt to see me so ready to go — God forgive me ! But 
she packed up my clothes, and some of the better end of her 
own as would fit me, in yon little paper box up there — it’s 
good for nought now, but I would liefer* live without fire 
than break it up to be burnt ; and yet it’s going on for eighty 
years old, for she had it when she was a girl, and brought 
all her clothes in it to father’s when they were married. 
But, as I was saying, she did not cry, though the tears was 
often in her eyes ; and I seen her looking after me down the 
lane as long as I were in sight, with her hand shading her 
eyes — and that were the last look I ever had on her.” 

Alice knew that before long she should go to that 
mother; and, besides, the griefs and bitter woes of youth 
have worn themselves out before we grow old; but she 
looked so sorrowful that the girls caught her sadness, and 
mourned for the poor woman who had been dead and gone 
so many years ago. 

“ Did you never see her again, Alice ? Did you never go 
home while she was alive ? ” asked Mary. 

“ No, nor since. Many a time and oft have I planned 
to go. I plan it yet, and hope to go home again before it 
please God to take me. I used to try and save money 
enough to go for a week when I was in service ; but first 
one thing came, and then another. First, missis’s children 
fell ill of the measles, just when the week I’d asked for came, 
and I couldn’t leave them, for one and all cried for me to 

* “Liefer,” rather. A.S. “leof,” dear. 

“ There n’is no thing, sauf bred, that me were lever.'' 

Chaucer, Monk's Tale. 

D 


33 


Mary Barton 

nurse them. Then missis herself fell sick, and I could go 
less than ever. For, you see, they kept a little shop, and he 
drank, and missis and me was all there was to mind children 
and shop and all, and cook and wash besides.” 

Mary was glad she had not gone into service, and said so. 

“ Eh, lass ! thou little knows the pleasure o’ helping 
others ; I was as happy there as could be ; almost as happy 
as I was at home. Well, but next year I thought I could go 
at a leisure time, and missis telled me I should have a 
fortnight then, and I used to sit up all that winter working 
hard at patchwork, to have a quilt of my own making to 
take to my mother. But master died, and missis went away 
fra Manchester, and I’d to look out for a place again.” 

“ Well, but,” interrupted Mary, “ I should have thought 
that was the best time to go home.” 

“No, I thought not. You see it was a different thing 
going home for a week on a visit, may be with money in my 
pocket to give father a lift, to going home to be a burden to 
him. Besides, how could I hear o’ a place there ? Anyways 
I thought it best to stay, though perhaps it might have been 
better to ha’ gone, for then I should ha’ seen mother again ; ” 
and the poor old woman looked puzzled. 

“ I’m sure you did what you thought right,” said Margaret 
gently. 

“ Ay, lass, that’s it,” said Alice, raising her head and 
speaking more cheerfully. “ That’s the thing, and then let 
the Lord send what He sees fit ; not but that I grieved sore, 
oh, sore and sad, when toward spring next year, when my 
quilt were all done to th’ lining, George came in one evening 
to tell me mother was dead. I cried many a night at after ; * 
I’d no time for crying by day, for that missis was terrible 
strict ; she would not hearken to my going to th’ funeral ; 
and indeed I would have been too late, for George set off 
that very night by th’ coach, and the letter had been kept or 
summut (posts were not like th’ posts now-a-days), and he 

* “ Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after supper.” 

Shakspeare, Richard III. 


34 


Old Alice’s History 

found the burial all over, and father talking o’ flitting ; for he 
couldn’t abide the cottage after mother was gone.” 

“ Was it a pretty place ? ” asked Mary. 

“ Pretty, lass ! I never seed such a bonny bit anywhere. 
You see there are hills there as seem to go up into th’ skies, 
not near may be, but that makes them all the bonnier. I 
used to think they were the golden hills of heaven, about 
which mother sang when I was a child — 

‘ Yon are the golden hills o’ heaven, 

Where ye sail never win.’ 

Something about a ship and a lover that should hae been na 
lover, the ballad was. Well, and near our cottage were 
rocks. Eh, lasses ! ye don’t know v/hat rocks are in 
Manchester ! Grey pieces o’ stone as large as a house, 
all covered over wi’ mosses of different colours, some yellow, 
some brown ; and the ground beneath them knee-deep in 
purple heather, smelling sae sweet and fragrant, and the 
low music of the humming-bee for ever sounding among it. 
Mother used to send Sally and me out to gather ling and 
heather for besoms, and it was such pleasant work ! We 
used to come home of an evening loaded so as you could hot 
see us, for all that it was so light to carry. And then 
mother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree 
(where we used to make our house among the great roots as 
stood above th’ ground), to pick and tie up the heather. It 
seems all like yesterday, and yet it’s a long long time agone. 
Poor sister Sally has been in her grave this forty year and 
more. But I often wonder if the hawthorn is standing yet, 
and if the lasses still go to gather heather, as we did many 
and many a year past and gone. I sicken at heart to see the 
old spot once again. May be next summer I may set off, if 
God spares me to see next summer.” 

“ Why have you never been in all these many years ? ” 
asked Mary. 

“ Why, lass ! first one wanted me and then another ; and 
I couldn’t go without money either, and I got very poor at 

3o 


Mary Barton 

times. Tom was a scapegrace, poor fellow, and always 
wanted help of one kind or other ; and his wife (for I think 
scapegraces are always married long before steady folk) was 
but a helpless kind of body. She was always ailing, and he 
were always in trouble ; so I had enough to do with my 
hands, and my money too, for that matter. They died 
within twelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had 
had seven, but the Lord had taken six to hisself). Will, as I 
was telling you on ; and I took him myself, and left service 
to make a bit on a home-place for him, and a fine lad he 
was, the very spit of his father as to looks, only steadier. 
For he was steady, although nought would serve him but 
going to sea. I tried all I could to set him again a sailor’s 
life. Says I, ‘ Folks is as sick as dogs all the time they’re 
at sea. Your own mother telled me (for she came from 
foreign parts, being a Manx woman) that she’d ha’ thanked 
any one for throwing her into the water.’ Nay, I sent him 
a’ the way to Euncom by th’ Duke’s canal, that he might 
know what th’ sea were ; and I looked to see him come back 
as white as a sheet wi’ vomiting. But the lad went on to 
Liverpool and saw real ships, and come back more set than 
ever on being a sailor, and he said as how he had never been 
sick at all, and thought he could stand the sea pretty well. 
So I told him he mun do as he liked ; and he thanked me 
and kissed me, for all I was very frabbit * with him ; and 
now he’s gone to South America, at t’other side of the sun, 
they tell me.” 

Mary stole a glance at Margaret to see what she thought 
of Alice’s geography ; but Margaret looked so quiet and 
demure, that Mary was in doubt if she were not really 
ignorant. Not that Mary’s knowledge was very profound, 
but she had seen a terrestrial globe, and knew where to find 
France and the continents on a map. 

After this long talking Alice seemed lost for a time in 
reverie ; and the girls, respecting her thoughts, which they 
suspected had wandered to the home and scenes of her 
* “ Frabbit,” peevish. 

36 


old Alice’s History 

childhood, were silent. All at once she recalled her duties 
as hostess, and by an effort brought back her mind to the 
present time. 

“ Margaret, thou must let Mary hear thee sing. I don’t 
know about fine music myself, but folks say Marget is a rare 
singer, and I know she can make me cry at any time by 
singing ‘ Th’ Owdham Weaver.” Do sing that, Marget, 
there’s a good lass.” 

With a faint smile, as if amused at Alice’s choice of a 
song, Margaret began. 

Do you know “ The Oldham Weaver ? ” Not unless 
you are Lancashire born and bred, for it is a complete 
Lancashire ditty. I will copy it for you. 


THE OLDHAM WEAVER 
I 

Oi’m a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas, 

Oi’ve nowt for t’ yeat, an’ oi’ve worn eawt my clooas, 
Yo’ad hardly gi’ tuppence for aw as oi’ve on, 

My clogs are both brosten, an’ stuckings oi’ve none, 

Yo’d think it wur hard, 

To be browt into th’ warld. 

To be — clemmed,* an’ do th’ best as yo con. 

II 

Owd Dicky o’ Billy’s kept telling me lung. 

Wee s’d ha’ better toimes if I’d but howd my tung, 

Oi’ve howden my tung, till oi’ve near stopped my breath, 
Oi think i’ my heeart oi’se soon clem to deeath, 

Owd Dicky’s weel crammed. 

He never wur clemmed. 

An’ he ne’er picked ower i’ his loife.f 


* “ Clem,” to starve with hunger. ” Hard is the choice, when the 
valiant must eat their arms or cZem.”-^ Ben Jonson. 

t To “pick ower,” means to throw the shuttle in hand-loom 
weaving. 


37 


Mary Barton 

III 

We tow’rt on six week — thinking aitch day wur th’ last, 

We shifted, an’ shifted, till neaw we’re quoite fast ; 

We lived upo’ nettles, whoile nettles wur good. 

An’ Waterloo porridge the best o’ eawr food, 

Oi’m tollin’ yo’ true, 

Oi can find folk enow. 

As wur livin’ na better nor me. 

IV 

Owd Billy o’ Dans sent th’ baileys one day. 

Fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay, 

But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy o’ th’ Bent 
Had sowd th’ tit an’ cart, an’ ta’en goods for th’ rent, 

We’d neawt left bo’ th’ owd stoo’. 

That wur seeats fur two, 

An’ on it ceawred Marget an’ me. 

V 

Then t’ baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse. 

When they seed as aw t’ goods were ta’en eawt o’ t’ heawse, 
Says one chap to th’ tother, “ Aws gone, theaw may see ; ” 
Says oi, “ Ne’er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta’ me.” 

They made no moor ado, 

But whopped up th’ eawd stoo’. 

An’ we booath leet, whack — upo’ t’ flags I 

‘ VI 

Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo’ t’ floor, 

“ We’s never be lower i’ this warld, oi’m sure. 

If ever things awtern, oi’m sure they mun mend. 

For oi think i’ my heart we’re booath at t’ far eend ; 

For meeat we ha’ none. 

Nor looms t’ weyve on, — 

Edad I they’re as goo" st as fund.” 

VII 

Eawr M8.rget declares, had hoo clooas to put on, 

Hoo’d goo up to Lunnon an’ talk to th’ greet mon ; 

An’ if things were na awtered when there hoo had been, 
Hoo’s fully resolved t’ sew up meawth an’ eend ; 

Hoo’s neawt to say again t’ king. 

But hoo loikes a fair thing. 

An’ hoo says hoo can tell when hoo’s hurt. 

38 


Old Alice’s History 

The air to which this is sung is a kind of droning reci- 
tative, depending much on expression and feeling. To read 
it, it may, perhaps, seem humorous ; hut it is that humour 
which is near akin to pathos, and to those who have seen 
the distress it describes it is a powerfully pathetic song. 
Margaret had both witnessed the destitution, and had the 
heart to feel it, and withal, her voice was of that rich and 
rare order, which does not require any great compass of 
notes to make itself appreciated. Alice had her quiet enjoy- 
ment of tears. But Margaret, with fixed eye, and earnest, 
dreamy look, seemed to become more and more absorbed in 
realising to herself the woe she had been describing, and 
which she felt might at that very moment be suffering and 
hopeless within a short distance of their comparative comfort. 

Suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her mag- 
nificent voice, as if a prayer from her very heart for all who 
were in distress, in the grand supplication, “ Lord, remember 
David.” Mary held her breath, unwilling to lose a note, it 
was so clear, so perfect, so imploring. A far more correct 
musician than Mary might have paused with equal admira- 
tion of the really scientific knowledge with which the poor 
depressed-looking young needlewoman used her superb and 
flexile voice. Deborah Travis herself (once an Oldham 
factory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds 
as Mrs. Knyvett) might have owned a sister in her art. 

She stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her 
eyes, Alice thanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, 
demure manner, much to Mary’s wonder, for she looked at 
her unweariedly, as if surprised that the hidden power should 
not be perceived in the outward appearance. 

When Alice’s little speech of thanks was over, there was 
quiet enough to hear a fine, though rather quavering, male 
voice, going over again one or two strains of Margaret’s song. 

“ That’s grandfather ! ” exclaimed she. “ I must be going, 
for he said he should not be at home till past nine.” 

“ Well, I’ll not say nay, for I have to be up by four for a 
very heavy wash at Mrs. Simpson’s ; but I shall be terrible 

39 


Mary Barton 

glad to see you again at any time, lasses ; and I hope you’ll 
take to one another.” 

As the girl3 ran up the cellar steps together, Margaret 
said — “Just step in, and see grandfather, I should like 
him . to see you.” 

And Mary consented. 


CHAPTEE V 

THE MILL ON FIBE — JEM WILSON TO THE EESCUE 

“ Learned he was ; nor bird, nor insect flew, 

But he its leafy home and history knew : 

Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well, 

But he its name and qualities could tell.” 

Elliott. 

Thebe is a class of men in Manchester, unknown even to 
many of the -inhabitants, and whose existence will probably 
be doubted by many, who yet may claim kindred with all the 
noble names that science recognises. I said in “ Manchester,” 
but they are scattered all over the manufacturing districts of 
Lancashire. In the neighbourhood of Oldham there are 
weavers, common hand-loom weavers, who throw the shuttle 
with unceasing sound, though Newton’s “ Principia ” lies 
open on the loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but 
revelled over in meal times, or at night. Mathematical 
problems are received with interest, and studied with absorb- 
ing attention by many a broad-spoken, common-looking 
factory-hand. It is perhaps less astonishing that the more 
popularly interesting branches of natural history have their 
warm and devoted followers among this class. There are 
botanists among them, equally familiar with either the Lin- 
nasan or the Natural system, who know the name and 
habitat of every plant within a day’s walk from their 

40 


The Mill on Fire 

dwellings ; who steal the holiday of a day or two when any 
particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their 
simple food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with single 
purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. There are 
entomologists, who may be seen with a rude looking net, 
ready to catch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge with 
which they rake the green and slimy pools ; practical, shrewd, 
hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen with 
real scientific delight. Nor is it the common and more 
obvious divisions of Entomology and Botany that alone 
attract these earnest seekers after knowledge. Perhaps it 
may be owing to the great annual town-holiday of Whitsun- 
week so often falling in May or June, that the two great 
beautiful families of Ephemeridae and Phryganidae have been 
so much and so closely studied by Manchester workmen, 
while they have in a great measure escaped general observa- 
tion. If you will refer to the preface to Sir J. E. Smith’s 
Life (I have it not by me, or I would copy you the exact 
passage), you will find that he names a little circumstance cor- 
roborative of what I have said. Being on a visit to Eoscoe, 
of Liverpool, he made some inquiries from him as to the habitat 
of a very rare plant, said to be found in certain places in 
Lancashire. Mr. Eoscoe knew nothing of the plant; but 
stated, that if any one could give him the desired informa- 
tion, it would be a hand-loom weaver in Manchester whom he 
named. Sir J. E. Smith proceeded by boat to Manchester, 
and on arriving at that town, he inquired of the porter who 
was carrying his luggage if he could direct him to So-and-So. 

“ Oh, yes,” replied the man. “ He does a bit in my 
way; ” and, on further investigation, it turned out, that both 
the porter, and his friend the weaver, were skilful botanists ; 
and able to give Sir J. E. Smith the very information which 
he wanted. 

Such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, 
little understood, working-men of Manchester. 

And Margaret’s grandfather was one of these. He was a 
little wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, 

41 


Mary Barton 

as if his limbs were worked by a string like a child’s toy, with 
dun -coloured hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides 
of his head; his forehead was so large it seemed to over- 
balance the rest of his face, which had, indeed, lost its 
natural contour by the absence of all the teeth. The eyes 
absolutely gleamed with intelhgence ; so keen, so observant, 
you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the 
whole room looked not unlike a wizard’s dwelling. Instead 
of pictures were hung rude wooden frames of impaled 
insects ; the little table was covered with cabalistic books ; 
and beside them lay a case of mysterious instruments, one of 
which Job Legh was using when his granddaughter entered. 

On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to 
rest midway on his forehead, and gave Mary a short, kind 
welcome. But Margaret he caressed as a mother caresses 
her first-bom; stroking her with tenderness, and almost 
altering his voice as he spoke to her. 

Mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had 
never seen at home, and which seemed to her to have a very 
uncanny look. 

“ Is your grandfather a fortune-teller ? ” whispered she to 
her new friend. 

“No,” replied Margaret in the same voice ; “ but you are 
not the first as has taken him for such. He is only fond of 
such things as most folks know nothing about.” 

“ And do you know aught about them too ? ” 

“ I know a bit about some of the things grandfather is 
fond on; just because he’s fond on ’em, I tried to learn 
about them.’” 

“ What things are these ? ” said Mary, struck with the 
weird-looking creatures that sprawled around the room in 
their roughly-made glass cases. 

But she was not prepared for the technical names which 
Job Legh pattered down on her ear, on which they fell like 
hail on a skylight ; and the strange language only bewildered 
her more than ever. Margaret saw the state of the case, and 
came to the rescue. 


42 


The Mill on Fire 

“ Look, Mary, at this horrid scorpion. He gave me such 
a fright : I am all of a twitter yet when I think of it. 
Grandfather went to Liverpool one Whitsun-week to go 
strolling about the docks and pick up what he could from 
the sailors, who often bring some queer thing or another 
from the hot countries they go to ; and so he sees a chap 
with a bottle in his hand, like a druggist’s physic-bottle ; and 
says grandfather, ‘ What have ye gotten there ? ’ So the 
sailor holds it up, and grandfather knew it was a rare kind 
o’ scorpion, not common even in the East Indies where the 
man came from ; and says he, ‘ How did you catch this fine 
fellow, for he wouldn’t be taken for nothing, I’m thinking ? ’ 
And the man said as how when they were unloading the 
ship he’d found him lying behind a bag of rice, and he 
thought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed 
nor injured a bit. He did not like to part with any of the 
spirit out of his grog to put the scorpion in, but slipped him 
into the bottle, knowing there were folks enow who would give 
him something for him. So grandfather gives him a shilling.” 

“Two shillings,” interrupted Job Legh; “and a good 
bargain it was.” 

“ Well ! grandfather came home as proud as Punch, and 
pulled the bottle out of his pocket. But you see th’ scorpion 
were doubled up, and grandfather thought I couldn’t fairly 
see how big he was. So he shakes him out right before the 
fire; and a good warm one it was, for I was ironing, I 
remember. I left off ironing and stooped down over him, 
to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began 
to read how this very kind were the most poisonous and 
vicious species, how their bite were often fatal, and then 
went on to read how people who were bitten got swelled, 
and screamed with pain. I was listening hard, but as it fell 
out, I never took my eyes off the creature, though I could 
not ha’ told I was watching it. Suddenly it seemed to give 
a jerk, and before I could speak it gave another, and in 
a minute it was as wild as it could be, running at me just 
like a mad dog.” 


43 


Mary Barton 

What did you do ? ” asked Mary. 

“ Me ! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all 
the things I’d been ironing on the dresser, and I screamed 
for grandfather to come up by me, but he did not hearken 
to me.” 

“ Why, if I’d come up by thee, who’d ha’ caught the 
creature, I should like to know ? ” 

“Well, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the 
iron right over it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged 
me not to hurt it in that way. So I couldn’t think what 
he’d have, for he hopped round the room as if he were sore 
afraid, for all he begged me not to injure it. At last he goes 
to th’ kettle, and lifts up the lid, and peeps in. What on 
earth is he doing that for, thinks I ; he’ll never drink his tea 
with a scorpion running free and easy about the room. Then 
he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on his nose, 
and in a minute he had lifted the creature up by th’ leg, and 
dropped him into the boiling water.” 

“ And did that kill him ? ” said Mary. 

“ Ay, sure enough ; he boiled for longer time than grand- 
father liked, though. But I was so afeard of his coming 
round again, I ran to the public-house for some gin, and 
grandfather filled the bottle, and then we poured off the 
water, and picked him out of the kettle, and dropped him 
into the bottle, and he were there above a twelvemonth.” 

“ What brought him to life at first ? ” asked Mary. 

“ Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid — 
that is, dead asleep with the cold, and our good fire brought 
him round.” 

“I’m glad father does not care for such things,” said 
Mary. 

“ Are you ! Well, I’m often downright glad grandfather 
is so fond of his books, and his creatures, and his plants. It 
does my heart good to see him so happy, sorting them all at 
home, and so ready to go in search of more, whenever he’s 
a spare day. Look at him now ! he’s gone back to his 
books, and he’ll be as happy as a king, working away till 

44 


The Mill on Fire 

I make him go to bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure ; but 
so long as I see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what 
does that matter? Then, when he has his talking bouts, 
you can’t think how much he has to say. Dear grandfather ! 
you don’t know how happy we are ! ” 

Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for 
Margaret did not speak in an undertone ; but no ! he was 
far too deep and eager in solving a problem. He did not 
even notice Mary’s leave-taking, and she went home with 
the feeling that she had that night made the acquaintance of 
two of the strangest people she ever saw in her life. Margaret, 
so quiet, so commonplace, until her singing powers were 
called forth ; so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable 
at home ; and her grandfather so very different from any one 
Mary had ever seen. Margaret had said he was not a 
fortune-teller, but she did not know whether to believe her. 

To resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening 
to her father, who was interested by her account, and curious 
to see and judge for himself. Opportunities are not often 
wanting where inclination goes before, and ere the end of 
that winter Mary looked upon Margaret almost as an old 
friend. The latter would bring her work when Mary was 
likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with her ; and 
Job Legh would put a book and his pipe in his pocket and 
just step round the corner to fetch his grandchild, ready for 
a talk if he found Barton in ; ready to pull out pipe and 
book if the girls wanted him to wait, and John was still at 
his club. In short, ready to do whatever would give pleasure 
to his darling Margaret. 

I do not know what points of resemblance, or dissimilitude 
(for this joins people as often as that) attracted the two girls 
to each other. Margaret had the great charm of possessing 
good strong common sense, and do you not perceive how 
involuntarily this is valued? It is so pleasant to have a 
friend who possesses the power of setting a difficult question 
in a clear light ; whose judgment can tell what is best to be 
done ; and who is so convinced of what is “ wisest, best,” 

45 


Mary Barton 

that in consideration of the end, all difficulties in the way 
diminish. People admire talent, and talk about their admira- 
tion. But they value common sense without talking about 
it, and often without knowing it. 

So Mary and Margaret grew in love one toward the 
other ; and Mary told many of her feelings in a way she 
had never done before to any one. Most of her foibles also 
were made known to Margaret, but not all. There was one 
cherished weakness still concealed from every one. • It con- 
cerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A 
gallant, handsome young man ; but — not beloved. Yet Mary 
hoped to meet him every day in her walks, blushed when she 
heard his name, and tried to think of him as her future 
husband, and above all, tried to think of herself as his future 
wife. Alas ! poor Mary ! Bitter woe did thy weakness work 
thee. 

She had other lovers. One or two would gladly have 
kept her company, but she held herself too high, they said. 
Jem Wilson said nothing, but loved on and on, ever more 
fondly ; he hoped against hope ; he would not give up, for it 
seemed like giving up life to give up thought of Mary. He 
did not dare to look to any end of all this ; the present, so 
that he saw her, touched the hem of her garment, was enough. 
Surely, in time, such deep love would beget love. 

He would not relinquish hope, and yet^ her coldness of 
manner was enough to daunt any man ; and it made Jem 
more despairing than he would acknowledge for a long time 
even to himself. 

But one evening he came round by Barton’s house, a 
willing messenger for his father, and opening the door saw 
Margaret sitting asleep before the fire. She had come in to 
speak to Mary ; and worn-out by a long, working, watching 
night, she fell asleep in the genial warmth. 

An old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into 
Jem’s mind, and stepping gently up, he kissed Margaret with 
a friendly kiss. 

She awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she 
46 


The Mill on Fire 

said, “ For shame of yourself, Jem ! What would Mary 
say ? ” 

Lightly said, lightly answered. 

“ She’d nobbut * say, practice makes perfect.” And they 
both laughed. But the words Margaret had said rankled in 
Jem’s mind. Would Mary care? Would she care in the 
very least? They seemed to call for an answer by night 
and by day ; and Jem felt that his heart told him Mary was 
quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved on, and 
on, ever more fondly. 

Mary’s father was well aware of the nature of Jem 
Wilson’s feeling for his daughter, but he took no notice of 
them to any one, thinking Mary full young yet for the cares 
of married life, and unwilling, too, to entertain the idea of 
parting with her at any time, however distant. But he 
welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have done his 
father’s son, whatever were his motives for coming ; and 
now and then admitted the thought, that Mary might do 
worse, when her time came, than marry Jem Wilson, a 
steady workman at a good trade, a good son to his parents, 
and a fine manly spirited chap— at least when Mary was 
not by; for when she was present he watched her too 
closely, and too anxiously, to have much of what John 
Barton called “ spunk ” in him. 

It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a 
bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east 
wind had long since swept the streets clean, though in a 
gusty day the dust would rise like pounded ice, and make 
people’s faces quite smart with the cold force with which it 
blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and everything 
looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with 
a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this 
grimy appearance on human beings, whatever there might 
be for the dun looks of the landscape ; for soft water had 
become an article not even to be purchased ; and the poor 

* “Nobbut,” none but, only. “No man sigh evere God no hut the 
oon bigitun sone .” — Wiclifs Version. 

47 


Mary Barton 

washerwomen might be seen vainly trying to procure a little 
by breaking the thick grey ice that coated the ditches and 
ponds in the neighbourhood. People prophesied a long con- 
tinuance to this already lengthened frost ; said the spring 
would be very late ; no spring fashions required ; no summer 
clothing purchased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed, 
there was no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance 
of that bleak east wind. 

Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was 
fading, from Miss Simmonds’, with her shawl held up to her 
mouth, and her head bent as if in deprecation of the meeting 
wind. So she did not perceive Margaret till she was close 
upon her at the very turning into the court. 

“ Bless me, Margaret ! is that you ? Where are you 
bound to ? ” 

“ To nowhere but your own house (that is, if you’ll take 
me in). I’ve a job of work to finish to-night ; mourning, as 
must be in time for the funeral to-morrow ; and grandfather 
has been out moss-hunting, and will not be home till late.” 

“ Oh, how charming it will be ! I’ll help you if you’re 
backward. Have you much to do ? ” 

“ Yes, I only got the order yesterday at noon ; and there’s 
three girls beside the mother ; and what with trying on and 
matching the stuff (for there was not enough in the piece 
they chose first), I’m above a bit behindhand. I’ve the 
skirts all to make. I kept that work till candlelight; and 
the sleeves, to say nothing of little bits to the bodies ; for the 
missis is very particular, and I could scarce keep from smiling 
while they were crying so, really taking on sadly I’m sure, 
to hear first one and then t’other clear up to notice the set 
of her gown. They weren’t to be misfits, I promise you, 
though they were in such trouble.” 

“ Well, Margaret, you’re right welcome, as you know, 
and I’ll sit down and help you with pleasure, though I was 
tired enough of sewing to-night at Miss Simmonds’. ” 

By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and 
hghted her candle ; and Margaret settled herself to her work 

48 


The Mill on Fire 

on one side of the table, while her friend hurried over her 
tea at the other. The things were then lifted en masse to the 
dresser; and dusting her side of the table with the apron 
she always wore at home, Mary took up some breadths and 
began to run them together. 

“ Who’s it all for, for if you told me I’ve forgotten ? ” 

“ Why, for Mrs. Ogden as keeps the greengrocer’s shop 
in Oxford Road. Her husband drank himself to death, and 
though she cried over him and his ways all the time he was 
alive, she’s fretted sadly for him now he’s dead.” 

“ Has he left her much to go upon ? ” asked Mary, 
examining the texture of the dress. “ This is beautifully fine 
soft bombazine.” 

“No, I’m much afeard there’s but little, and there’s 
several young children, besides the three Miss Ogdens.” 

“ I should have thought girls like them would ha’ made 
their own gowns,” observed Mary. 

“ So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem 
all so busy getting ready for the funeral ; for it’s to be quite 
a grand affair, well-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one 
of the little ones told me ; the little thing seemed to like the 
fuss, and I do believe it comforted poor Mrs. Ogden to make 
all the piece o’ work. Such a smell of ham boiling and fowls 
roasting while I waited in the kitchen ; it seemed more like 
a wedding nor * a funeral. They said she’d spend a matter 
o’ sixty pound on th’ burial.” 

“ I thought you said she was but badly off,” said Mary. 

“ Ay, I know she’s asked for credit at several places, 
saying her husband laid hands on every farthing he could 
get for drink. But th’ undertakers urge her on, you see, and 
tell her this thing’s usual, and that thing’s only a common 
mark of respect, and that everybody has t’other thing, till 
the poor woman has no will o’ her own. I dare say, too, 
her heart strikes her (it always does when a person’s gone) 
for many a word and many a slighting deed to him who’s 

* “Nor,” generally used in Lancashire for “ than.” 

“They had lever sleep nor be in laundery.” — Dunbar. 

E 


Mary Barton 

stiff and cold ; and she thinks to make up matters, as it were, 
by a grand funeral, though she and all her children, too, may 
have to pinch many a year to pay the expenses, if ever they 
pay them at all.” 

“ This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny,” said 
Mary. “ I often wonder why folks wear mourning ; it’s not 
pretty or becoming ; and it costs a deal of money just when 
people can spare it least ; and if what the Bible tells us be 
true, we ought not to be sorry when a friend, who’s been 
good, goes to his rest ; and as for a bad man, one’s glad 
enough to get shut * on him. I cannot see what good comes 
out o’ wearing mourning.” 

“ I’ll tell you what I think the fancy was sent for (old 
Alice calls everything ‘ sent for,’ and I beheve she’s right). 
It does do good, though not as much as it costs, that I do 
beheve, in setting people (as is cast down by sorrow and feels 
themselves unable to settle to anything but crying) something 
to do. Why now I told you how they were grieving ; for, 
perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, in his thought- 
less way, when he wasn’t in liquor. But they cheered up 
wonderful while I was there, and I asked ’em for more 
directions than usual, that they might have something to 
talk over and fix about; and I left ’em my fashion-book 
(though it were two months old) just a purpose.” 

“ I don’t think every one would grieve a that way. Old 
Alice wouldn’t.” 

“ Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too, if she 
would fret much, however sorry she might be. She would 
say it were sent, and fall to trying to find out what good it 
were to do. Every sorrow in her mind is sent for good. 
Did I ever tell you, Mary, what she said one day when she 
found me taking on about something ? ” 

“ No ; do tell me. What were you fretting about, first 
place?” 

“ I can’t tell you, just now ; perhaps I may some time.” 

“ When ? ” 

* “ Shut,” quit. 

50 


The Mill on Fire 

“ Perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart ; 
perhaps never. It’s a fear that sometimes I can’t abide to 
think about, and sometimes I don’t like to think on anything 
else. Well, I was fretting about this fear, and Alice comes 
in for something, and finds me crying. I would not tell her 
no more than I would you, Mary ; so she says, ‘ Well, dear, 
you must mind this, when you’re going to fret and be low 
about anything — An anxious mind is never a holy mind.’ 
O Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling sin’ * she 
said that.” 

The weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard 
for a little while, till Mary inquired — 

“ Do you expect to get paid for this mourning ? ” 

“ Why, I do not much think I shall. I’ve thought it over 
once or twice, and I mean to bring myself to think I shan’t, 
and to like to do it as my bit towards comforting them. I 
don’t think they can pay, and yet they’re just the sort of 
folk to have their minds easier for wearing mourning. There’s 
only one thing I dislike making black for, it does so hurt 
the eyes.” 

Margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her 
eyes. Then she assumed a cheerful tone, and said — 

“ You’ll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secret’s on 
the tip of my tongue. Mary, do you know I sometimes 
think I’m growing a little blind, and then what would become 
of grandfather and me ? Oh, God help me. Lord help me ! ” 
She fell into an agony of tears, while Mary knelt by her, 
striving to soothe and to comfort her; but, like an inex- 
perienced person, striving rather to deny the correctness of 
Margaret’s fear, than helping her to meet and overcome 
the evil. 

“No,” said Margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes on 
Mary ; “I know I’m not mistaken. I have felt one going 
somo time, long before I ever thought what it would lead 

* “ Sin’,” since. 

“ Sin that his lord was twenty yere of age.” 

• Prologue to Canterbury Tale$* 


51 


Mary Barton 

to; and last autumn I went to a doctor; and he did not 
mince the matter, but said unless I sat in a darkened room, 
with my hands before me, my sight would not last me many 
years longer. But how could I do that, Mary? For one 
thing, grandfather would have known there was somewhat 
the matter ; and, oh ! it will grieve him sore whenever he’s 
told, so the later the better ; and besides, Mary, we’ve some- 
times little enough to go upon, and what I earn is a great 
help. For grandfather takes a day here, and a day there, for 
botanising or going after insects, and he’ll think little enough 
of four or five shillings for a specimen ; dear grandfather ! 
and I’m so loath to think he should be stinted of what gives 
him such pleasure. So I went to another doctor to try and 
get him to say something different, and he said, ‘ Oh, it was 
only weakness,’ and gived me a bottle of lotion; but I’ve 
used three bottles (and each of ’em cost two shillings), and 
my eye is so much worse, not hurting so much, but I can’t 
see a bit with it. There now, Mary,” continued she, shutting 
one eye, “ now you only look like a great black shadow, with 
the edges dancing and sparkling.” 

“ And can you see pretty well with th’ other ? ” 

“ Yes, pretty near as well as ever. Th’ only difference is, 
that if I sew a long time together, a bright spot like th’ sun 
comes right where I’m looking ; all the rest is quite clear but 
just where I want to see. I’ve been to both doctors again, 
and now they’re both o’ the same story ; and I suppose I’m 
going dark as fast as may be. Plain work pays so bad, and 
mourning has been so plentiful this winter, that I were 
tempted to take in any black work I could ; and now I’m 
suffering from it.” 

“ And yet, Margaret, you’re going on taking it in ; that’s 
what you’d call foolish in another.” 

“ It is, Mary ! and yet what can I do ? Folk mun live ; 
and I think I should go blind any way, and I darn’t tell 
grandfather, else I would leave it off; but he will so fret.” 

Margaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her 
emotion. 


52 


The Mill on Fire 

“ O Mary I ” she said, “ I try to get his face off by heart, 
and I stare at him so when he’s not looking, and then shut 
my eyes to see if I can remember his dear face. There’s 
one thing, Mary, that serves a bit to comfort me. You’ll 
have heard of old Jacob Butterworth, the singing weaver ? 
Well, I know’d him a bit, so I went to him, and said how I 
wished he’d teach me the right way o’ singing ; and he says 
I’ve a rare fine voice, and I go once a week, and take a 
lesson fm’ him. He’s been a grand singer in his day. He 
led the choruses at the Festivals, and got thanked many 
a time by London folk; and one foreign singer, Madame 
Catalani, turned round and shook him by th’ hand before 
the Oud Church * full o’ people. He says I may gain ever 
so much money by singing; but I don’t know. Any rate, 
it’s sad work, being blind.” 

She took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, 
and for some time they sewed on in silence. 

Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved 
court ; person after person ran past the curtained window. 

“ Something’s up,” said Mary. She went to the door, 
and stopping the first person she saw, inquired the cause of 
the commotion. 

“ Eh, wench ! donna ye see the fire-light ? Carsons’ mill 
is blazing away like fun ; ” and away her informant ran. 

“ Come, Margaret, on wi’ your bonnet, and let’s go to see 
Carsons’ mill ; it’s afire, and they say a burning mill is such 
a grand sight. I never saw one.” 

“ Well, I think it’s a fearful sight. Besides, I’ve all this 
work to do.” 

But Mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her 
gentle caresses, promising to help with the gowns all night 
long, if necessary, nay, saying she should quite enjoy it. 

The truth was, Margaret’s secret weighed heavily and 
painfully on her mind, and she felt her inability to comfort ; 
besides, she wanted to change the current of Margaret’s 
thoughts ; and in addition to these unselfish feelings came 
♦ “ Old Church ; ” now the Cathedral of Manchester. 

53 


Mary Barton 

the desire she had honestly expressed, of seeing a factory 
on fire. 

So in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold 
of the house they met John Barton, to whom they told their 
errand. 

“ Carsons’ mill ! Ay, there is a mill on fire somewhere, 
sure enough by the light, and it will be a rare blaze, for 
there’s not a drop o’ water to be got. And much Carsons 
will care, for they’re well insured, and the machines are 
a’ th’ oud-fashioned kind. See if they don’t think it a 
fine thing for themselves. They’ll not thank them as tries 
to put it out.” 

He gave way for the impatient girls to pass. Guided by 
the ruddy light more than by any exact knowledge of the 
streets that led to the mill, they scampered along with bent 
heads, facing the terrible east wind as best they might. 

Carsons’ mill ran lengthways from east to west. Along 
it went one of the oldest thoroughfares in Manchester. 
Indeed, all that part of the town was comparatively old ; it 
was there that the first cotton mills were built, and the 
crowded alleys and back streets of the neighbourhood made 
a fire there particularly to be dreaded. The staircase of the 
mill ascended from the entrance at the western end, which 
faced into a wide, dingy-looking street, consisting principally 
of public-houses, pawnbrokers’ shops, rag and bone ware- 
houses, and dirty provision shops. The other, the east end 
of the factory, fronted into a very narrow back street, not 
twenty feet wide, and miserably hghted and paved. Eight 
against this end of the factory were the gable ends of the last 
house in the principal street — a house which from its size^ 
its handsome stone facings, and the attempt at ornament in 
the front, had probably been once a gentleman’s house ; but 
now the light which streamed from its enlarged front 
windows made clear the interior of the splendidly fitted 
up room, with its painted walls, its pillared recesses its 
gilded and gorgeous fittings-up, its miserable squalid inmates. 
It was a gin palace. 


54 


The Mill on Fire 

Mary almost wished herself away, so fearful (as Margaret 
had said) was the sight when they had joined the crowd 
assembled to witness the fire. There was a murmur of 
many voices whenever the roaring of the flames ceased for 
an instant. It was easy to perceive the mass were deeply 
interested. 

“ What do they say ? ” asked Margaret of a neighbour in 
the crowd, as she caught a few words, clear and distinct 
from the general murmur. 

“ There never is any one in the mill, surely ! ” exclaimed 
Mary, as the sea of upward-turned faces moved with one 
accord to the eastern end, looking into Dunham Street, the 
narrow back lane already mentioned. 

The western end of the mill, whither the raging flames 
were driven by the wind, was crowned and turreted with 
triumphant fire. It sent forth its infernal tongues from 
every window hole, hcking the black walls with amorous 
fierceness ; it was swayed or fell before the mighty gale, only 
to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage and roar yet more 
wildly. This part of the roof fell in with an astounding 
crash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press 
into Dunham Street, for what were magnificent terrible 
flames — what were falling timbers or tottering walls, in 
comparison with human life ? 

There, where the devouring flames had been repelled by 
the yet more powerful wind, but where yet black smoke 
gushed out from every aperture — there, at one of the windows 
on the fourth storey, or rather a doorway where a crane was 
fixed to hoist up goods, might occasionally be seen, when the 
thick gusts of smoke cleared partially away for an instant, 
the imploring figures of two men. They had remained after 
the rest of the workmen for some reason or other, and, 
owing to the wind having driven the fire in the opposite 
direction, had perceived no sight or sound of alarm, till long 
after (if anything could be called long in that throng of 
terrors which passed by in less than half-an-hour) the fire had 
consumed the old wooden staircase at the other end of the 

55 


Mary Barton 

building. I am not sure whether it was not the first sound 
of the rushing crowd below that made them fully aware 
of their awful position. 

“ Where are the engines ? ” asked Margaret of her 
neighbour. 

“ They’re coming, no doubt ; but bless you, I think it’s 
bare ten minutes since we first found out th’ fire ; it rages so 
wi’ this wind, and all so dry-like.” 

“Is no one gone for a ladder ? ” gasped Mary, as the 
men were perceptibly, though not audibly, praying the great 
multitude below for help. 

“ Ay, Wilson’s son and another man were off like a shot, 
wellnigh five minutes ago. But th’ masons, and slaters, 
and such hke, have left their work, and locked up the 
yards.” 

Wilson, then, was that man whose figure loomed out 
against the ever-increasing dull hot light behind, whenever 
the smoke was clear — was that George Wilson? Mary 
sickened with terror. She knew he worked for Carsons ; but 
at first she had had no idea that any lives were in danger ; 
and since she had become aware of this, the heated air, the 
roaring flames, the dizzy light, and the agitated and 
murmuring crowd, had bewildered her thoughts. 

“ Oh I let us go home, Margaret ; I cannot stay.” 

“We cannot go ! See how we are wedged in by folks. 
Poor Mary 1 ye won’t hanker after a fire again. Hark ! 
listen ! ” ^ 

For through the hushed crowd pressing round the angle 
of the mill, and filling up Dunham Street, might be heard 
the rattle of the engine, the heavy, quick tread of loaded 
horses. 

“ Thank God ! ” said Margaret’s neighbour, “ the engine’s 
come.” 

Then there was a pressure through the crowd, the front 
rows bearing back on those behind, till the girls were sick 
with the close ramming confinement. Then a relaxation, 
and a breathing freely once more. 

56 


The Mill on Fire 

“ ’Twas young Wilson and a fireman wi’ a ladder,” said 
Margaret’s neighbour, a tall man who could overlook the 
crowd. 

“ Oh, tell us what you see ? ” begged Mary. 

“ They’ve getten it fixed against the gin-shop wall. One 
o’ the men i’ the factory has fell back ; dazed wi’ the smoke. 
I’ll warrant. The floor’s not given way there. God ! ” said 
he, bringing his eye lower down, “ the ladder’s too short ! 
It’s a’ over wi’ them, poor chaps. Th’ fire’s coming slow 
and sure to that end, and afore they’ve either getten water, 
or another ladder, they’ll be dead out and out. Lord have 
mercy on them ! ” 

A sob, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush of 
the crowd. Another pressure like the former ! Mary clung 
to Margaret’s arm with a pinching grasp, and longed to faint, 
and be insensible, to escape from the oppressing misery of 
her sensations. A minute or two. 

“ They’ve taken th’ ladder into th’ Temple of Apollor. 
Can’t press back with it to the yard it came from.” 

A mighty shout arose ; a sound to wake the dead. Up 
on high, quivering in the air, was seen the end of the ladder, 
protruding out of a garret window, in the gable end of the 
gin palace, nearly opposite to the doorway where the men 
had been seen. Those in the crowd nearest to the factory, 
and consequently best able to see up to the garret window, 
said that several men were holding one end, and guiding by 
their weight its passage to the doorway. The garret window- 
frame had been taken out before the crowd below were aware 
of the attempt. 

At length — for it seemed long, measured by beating 
hearts, though scarce two minutes had elapsed — the ladder 
was fixed, an aerial bridge at a dizzy height, across the 
narrow street. 

Every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and people’s very 
breathing seemed stilled in suspense. The men were nowhere 
to be seen, but the wind appeared, for the moment, higher than 
ever, and drove back the invading flames to the other end. 

57 


Mary Barton 

Mary and Margaret could see now: right above them 
danced the ladder in the wind. The crowd pressed back 
from under j firemen’s helmets appeared at the window, 
holding the ladder firm, when a man, with quick, steady 
tread, and unmoving head, passed from one side to the 
other. The multitude did not even whisper while he crossed 
the perilous bridge, which quivered under him ; but when he 
was across, safe comparatively in the factory, a cheer arose 
for an instant, checked, however, almost immediately, by the 
uncertainty of the result, and the desire not in any way to 
shake the nerves of the brave fellow who had cast his life on 
such a die. 

“ There he is again ! ” sprung to the lips of many, as they 
saw him at the doorway, standing as if for an instant to 
breathe a mouthful of the fresher air, before he trusted him- 
self to cross. On his shoulders he bore an insensible body. 

“It’s Jem Wilson and his father,” whispered Margaret ; 
but Mary knew it before. 

The people wej^e sick with anxious terror. He could no 
longer balance himself with his arms; everything must 
depend on nerve and eye. They saw the latter was fixed, by 
the position of the head, which never wavered ; the ladder 
shook under the double weight ; but still he never moved his 
head — he dared not look below. It seemed an age before 
the crossing was accomphshed. At last the window was 
gained ; the bearer reheved from his burden ; both had dis- 
appeared. 

Then the multitude might shout ; and above the roaring 
flames, louder than the blowing of the mighty wind, arose 
that tremendous burst of applause at the success of the 
daring enterprise. Then a shrill cry was heard, asking — 

“ Is the oud man alive, and likely to do ? ” 

“ Ay,” answered one of the firemen to the hushed crowd 
below. “ He’s coming round finely, now he’s had a dash of 
cowd water.” 

He drew back his head; and the eager inquiries, the 
shouts, the sea-like murmurs of the moving rolling mass 

58 


The Mill on Fire 

began again to be heard — but only for an instant. In far 
less time than even that in which I have endeavoured briefly 
to describe the pause of events, the same bold hero stepped 
again upon the ladder, with evident purpose to rescue the 
man yet remaining in the burning mill. 

He went across in the same quick steady manner as 
before, and the people below, made less acutely anxious by 
his previous success, were talking to each other, shouting 
out intelhgence of the progress of the fire at the other end of 
the factory, telling of the endeavours of the firemen at that 
part to obtain water, while the closely packed body of men 
heaved and rolled from side to side. It was difl’erent from 
the former silent breathless hush. I do not know if it were 
from this cause, or from the recollection of peril past, or that 
he looked below, in the breathing moment before returning 
with the remaining person (a slight little man) slung across 
his shoulders, but Jem Wilson’s step was less steady, his 
tread more uncertain ; he seemed to feel with his foot for the 
next round of the ladder, to waver, and finally to stop half- 
way. By this time the crowd was still enough; in the 
awful instant that intervened no one durst speak, even to 
encourage. Many turned sick with terror, and shut their 
eyes to avoid seeing the catastrophe they dreaded. It came. 
The brave man swayed from side to side, at first as 
slightly as if only balancing himself ; but he was evidently 
losing nerve, and even sense ; it was only wonderful how the 
animal instinct of self-preservation did not overcome every 
generous feeling, and impel him at once to drop the helpless, 
inanimate body he carried ; perhaps the same instinct told 
him, that the sudden loss of so heavy a weight would of itself 
be a great and imminent danger. 

“ Help me ; she’s fainted,” cried Margaret. But no one 
heeded. All eyes were directed upwards. At this point of 
time a rope, with a running noose, was dexterously thrown 
by one of the firemen, after the manner of a lasso, over the 
head and round the bodies of the two men. True, it was 
with rude and slight adjustment : but slight as it was, it 

59 


Mary Barton 

served as a steadying guide ; it encouraged the sinking heart, 
the dizzy head. Once more Jem stepped onwards. He was 
not hurried by any jerk or pull. Slowly and gradually the 
rope was hauled in, slowly and gradually did he make the 
four or five paces between him and safety. The window 
was gained, and all were saved. The multitude in the street 
absolutely danced with triumph, and huzzaed, and yelled till 
you would have fancied their very throats would crack ; and 
then, with all the fickleness of interest characteristic of a 
large body of people, pressed and stumbled, and cursed and 
swore, in the hurry to get out of Dunham Street, and back 
to the immediate scene of the fire, the mighty diapason of 
whose roaring flames formed an awful accompaniment to 
the screams, and yells, and imprecations, of the struggling 
crowd. 

As they pressed away, Margaret was left, pale and almost 
sinking under the weight of Mary’s body, which she had 
preserved in an upright position by keeping her arms tight 
round Mary’s waist, dreading, with reason, the trampling of 
unheeding feet. 

Now, however, she gently let her down on the cold clean 
pavement ; and the change of posture, and the difference in 
temperature ; now that the people had withdrawn from their 
close neighbourhood, speedily restored her to consciousness. 

Her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She had 
forgotten where she was. Her cold, hard bed felt strange ; 
the murky glare in the sky affrighted her. She shut her 
eyes to think, to recollect. 

Her next look was upwards. The fearful bridge had been 
withdrawn ; the window was unoccupied. 

“ They are safe,” said Margaret. 

“ All ? Are all safe, Margaret ? ” asked Mary. 

“ Ask yon fireman, and he’ll tell you more about it than I 
can. But I know they’re all safe.” 

The fireman hastily corroborated Margaret’s words. 

“Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice?” asked 
Margaret. 


6o 


The Mill on Fire 

“ Let ? — why, we could not hinder him. As soon as ever 
he’d heard his father speak (which he was na long a doing), 
Jem were off like a shot; only saying he knowed better 
nor us where to find t’other man. We’d all ha’ gone, if he 
had na been in such a hurry, for no one can say as Man- 
chester firemen is ever backward when there’s danger.” 

So saying he ran off ; and the two girls, without remark 
or discussion turned homewards. They were overtaken by 
the elder Wilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently 
as strong and well as ever. He loitered a minute or two 
alongside of them, giving an account of his detention in the 
mill ; he then hastily wished good-night, saying he must go 
home and tell his missis he was all safe and well ; but after 
he had gone a few steps, he turned back, came on Mary’s 
side of the pavement, and in an earnest whisper, which 
Margaret could not avoid hearing, he said — 

“ Mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give him a 
kind word or two for my sake. Do! bless you, there’s a 
good wench.” 

Mary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an 
instant he was gone. 

When they arrived at home, they found John Barton 
smoking his pipe, unwilling to question ; yet very willing to 
hear all the details they could give him. Margaret went 
over the whole story, and it was amusing to watch his 
gradually increasing interest and excitement. First, the 
regular puffing abated, then ceased. Then the pipe was 
fairly taken out of his mouth, and held suspended. Then 
he rose, and at every further point he came a step nearer to 
the narrator. 

When it was ended he swore (an unusual thing for him) 
that if Jem Wilson wanted Mary he should have her to- 
morrow, if he had not a penny to keep her. 

Margaret laughed, but Mary, who was now recovered 
from her agitation, pouted and looked angry. 

The work which they had left was resumed : but with full 
hearts fingers never go very quickly ; and I am sorry to say 

6i 


Mary Barton 

that, owing to the fire, the two younger Miss Ogdens were in 
such grief for the loss of their excellent father, that they were 
unable to appear before the little circle of sympathising 
friends gathered together to comfort the widow, and see the 
funeral set off. 


CHAPTEE VI 

POVEBTY AND DEATH 

** How little can the rich man know 
Of what the poor man feels, 

When Want, like some dark demon foe. 

Nearer and nearer steals 1 

He never tramp’d the weary round, 

A stroke of work to gain. 

And sicken’d at the dreaded sound 
Which tells he seeks in vain. 

Foot-sore, heart-sore, he never came 
Back through the winter’s wind. 

To a dank cellar, there no flame. 

No light, no food, to And. 

He never saw his darlings lie 
Shivering, the flags their bed ; 

He never heard that maddening cry, 

‘ Daddy, a bit of bread 1 ’ ” 

Manchester Song. 

John Baeton was not far wrong in his idea that the Messrs. 
Carson would not be over-much grieved for the consequences 
of the fire in their mill. They were well insured; the 
machinery lacked the improvements of late years, and worked 
but poorly in comparison with that which might now be 
procured. Above all, trade was very slack; cottons could 

62 


Poverty and Death 

find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in many a 
warehouse. The mills were merely worked to keep the 
machinery, human and metal, in some kind of order and 
readiness for better times. So this was an excellent oppor- 
tunity, Messrs. Carson thought, for refitting their factory with 
first-rate improvements, for which the insurance money would 
amply pay. They were in no hurry about the business, how- 
over. The weekly drain of wages given for labour, useless 
in the present state of the market, was stopped. The partners 
had more leisure than they had known for years; and 
promised wives and daughters all manner of pleasant excur- 
sions, as soon as the weather should become more genial. 
It was a pleasant thing to be able to lounge over breakfast 
with a review or newspaper in hand; to have time for 
becoming acquainted with agreeable and accomplished 
daughters, on whose education no money had been spared, 
but whose fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes 
, and accounts, had so seldom had leisure to enjoy their 
daughter’s talents. There were happy family evenings, now 
that the men of business had time for domestic enjoyments. 
There is another side to the picture. There were homes over 
which Carsons’ fire threw a deep, terrible gloom ; the homes 
of those who would fain work, and no man gave unto them — 
the homes of those to whom leisure was a curse. There, the 
family music was hungry wails, when week after week passed 
by, and there was no work to be had, and consequently no 
wages to pay for the bread the children cried aloud for in 
their young impatience of suffering. There was no breakfast 
to lounge over; their lounge was taken in bed, to try and 
keep warmth in them that bitter March weather, and, by 
being quiet, to deaden the gnawing wolf within. Many a 
penny that would have gone little way enough in oatmeal 
or potatoes, bought opium to still the hungry little ones, and 
make them forget their uneasiness in heavy troubled sleep. 
It was mother’s mercy. The evil and the good of our nature 
came out strongly then. There were desperate fathers ; there 
were bitter-tongued mothers (O God ! what wonder !) ; there 

63 


Mary Barton 

were reckless children ; the very closest bonds of nature were 
snapt in that time of trial and distress. There was Faith 
such as the rich can never imagine on earth ; there was 
“ Love strong as death ; ” and self-denial, among rude, coarse 
men, akin to that of Sir Philip Sidney’s most glorious deed. 
The vices of the poor sometimes astound us here ; but when 
the secrets of all hearts shall be made known, their virtues 
will astound us in far greater degree. Of this I am certain. 

As the cold, bleak spring came on (spring, in name alone), 
and consequently as trade continued dead, other mills 
shortened hours, turned off hands, and finally stopped work 
altogether. 

Barton worked short hours ; Wilson, of course, being a 
hand in Carsons’ factory, had no work at all. But his son, 
working at an engineer’s, and a steady man, obtained wages 
enough to maintain all the family in a careful way. Still it 
preyed on Wilson’s mind to be so long indebted to his son. 
He was out of spirits, and depressed. Barton was morose, 
and soured towards mankind as a body, and the rich in 
particular. One evening, when the clear light at six o’clock 
contrasted strangely with the Christmas cold, and when the 
bitter wind piped down every entry, and through every 
cranny. Barton sat brooding over his stinted fire, and listen- 
ing for Mary’s step, in unacknowledged trust that her 
presence would cheer him. The door was opened, and 
Wilson came breathless in. 

“ You’ve not got a bit o’ money by you, Barton ? ” asked he. 

“ Not I ; who has now, I’d like to know ? Whatten you 
want it for?” 

“ I donnot * want it for mysel’, tho’ we’ve none to spare. 
But don ye know Ben Davenport as worked at Carsons’ ? 
He’s down wi’ the fever, and ne’er a stick o’ fire nor a cowd f 
potato in the house.” 

* “ Don ” is constantly used in Lancashire for ‘ do ; ” as it was by 
our older writers. ‘ ‘ And that may non Hors don.'* — Sir J. Mandeville. 

Biit for th’ entent to don this sinn«.” — Chaucer. 

t “ Cowd,*' cold. Teut. kaud. Dutch, /cowd. 

64 


Poverty and Death 

“ I han got no money, I tell ye,” said Barton. Wilson 
looked disappointed. Barton tried not to be interested, but 
he could not help it in spite of his gruffness. He rose, and 
went to the cupboard (his wife’s pride long ago). There lay 
the remains of his dinner, hastily put by ready for supper. 
Bread, and a slice of cold fat boiled bacon. He wrapped 
them in his handkerchief, put them in the crown of his hat, 
and said — “ Come, let us be going.” 

“ Going — art thou going to work this time o’ day ? ” 

“No, stupid, to be sure not. Going to see the chap thou 
spoke on.” So they put on their hats and set out. On the 
way Wilson said Davenport was a good fellow, though too 
much of the Methodee ; that his children were too young to 
work, hut not too young to be cold and hungry ; that they 
had sunk lower and lower, and pawned thing after thing, and 
that they now lived in a cellar in Berry Street, off Store 
Street. Barton growled inarticulate words of no benevolent 
import to a large class of mankind, and so they went along 
till they arrived in Berry Street. It was unpaved ; and down 
the middle a gutter forced its way, every now and then 
forming pools in the holes with which the street abounded. 
Never was the old Edinburgh cry of Gardez Veau! more 
necessary than in this street. As they passed, women from 
their doors tossed* household slops of every description into 
the gutter ; they ran into the next pool, which overflowed 
and stagnated. Heaps of ashes were the stepping-stones, 
on which the passer-hy, who cared in the least for cleanliness, 
took care not to put his foot. Our friends were not dainty, 
but even they picked their way, till they got to some steps 
leading down to a small area, where a person standing would 
have his head about one foot below the level of the street, 
and might at the same time, without the least motion of his 
body, touch the window of the cellar and the damp muddy 
wall right opposite. You went down one step even from the 
foul area into the cellar in which a family of human beings 
lived. It was very dark inside. The window-panes, many 
of them, were broken and stuffed with rags, which was reason 

65 F 


Mary Barton 

enough for the dusky light that pervaded the place even at 
mid-day. After the account I have given of the state of the 
street, no one can be surprised that on going into the cellar 
inhabited by Davenport, the smell was so foetid as almost 
to knock the two men down. Quickly recovering themselves, 
as those inured to such things do, they began to penetrate 
the thick darkness of the place, and to see three or four little 
children rolling on the damp, nay wet brick floor, through 
which the stagnant, filthy moisture of the street oozed up ; 
the fire-place was empty and black ; the wife sat on her 
husband’s lair, and cried in the dark loneliness. 

“ See, missis, I’m back again. — Hold your noise, children, 
and don’t mither* your mammy for bread; here’s a chap 
as has got some for you.” 

In that dim hght, which was darkness to strangers, they 
clustered round Barton, and tore from him the food he had 
brought with him. It was a large hunch of bread, but it 
vanished in an instant. 

“We mun do summut for ’em,” said he to Wilson. 
“ Yo stop here, and I’ll be back in half-an-hour.” 

So he strode, and ran, and hurried home. He emptied 
into the ever-useful pocket-handkerchief the little meal 
remaining in the mug. Mary would have her tea at Miss 
Simmonds’ ; her food for the day was safe. Then he went 
upstairs for his better coat, and his one gay red-and-yellow 
silk pocket-handkerchief — his jewels, his plate, his valuables, 
these were. He went to the pawn-shop ; he pawned them 
for five shillings : he stopped not, nor stayed, till he was 
once more in London Eoad, within five minutes’ walk of 
Berry Street — then he loitered in his gait, in order to discover 
the shops he wanted. He bought meat, and a loaf of bread, 
candles, chips, and from a little retail yard he purchased 
a couple of hundredweights of coal. Some money still 
remained — all destined for them, but he did not yet know 
how best to spend it. Food, light, and warmth, he had 

* “ Mither,” to trouble and perplex. “ I’m welly mithered ” — I’m 
well-nigh crazed. 

66 


Poverty and Death 

instantly seen were necessary ; for luxuries he would wait. 
Wilson’s eyes filled with tears when he saw Barton enter 
with his purchases. He understood it all, and longed to be 
once more in work that he might help in some of these 
material ways, without feeling that he was using his son’s 
money. But though “ silver and gold he had none,” he 
gave heart-service and love-works of far more value. Nor 
was John Barton behind in these. “ The fever” was (as it 
usually is in Manchester) of a low, putrid, typhoid kind; 
brought on by miserable living, filthy neighbourhood, and 
great depression of mind and body. It is virulent, malignant, 
and highly infectious. But the poor are fatalists with regard 
to infection ; and well for them it is so, for in their crowded 
dwellings no invalid can be isolated. Wilson asked Barton 
if he thought he should catch it, and was laughed at for his 
idea. 

The two men, rough, tender nurses as they were, lighted 
the fire, which smoked and puffed into the room as if it did 
not know the way up the damp, unused chimney. The very 
smoke seemed purifying and healthy in the thick clammy 
air. The children clamoured again for bread ; but this time 
Barton took a piece first to the poor, helpless, hopeless 
woman, who still sat by the side of her husband, listening to 
his anxious miserable mutterings. She took the bread, when 
it was put into her hand, and broke a bit, but could not eat. 
She was past hunger. She fell down on the floor with a 
heavy imresisting bang. The men looked puzzled. “ She’s 
well-nigh clemmed,” said Barton. “ Folk do say one 
mustn’t give clemmed people much to eat ; but, bless us, 
she’ll eat nought.” 

“ I’ll tell yo what I’ll do,” said Wilson. “ I’ll take these 
two big lads, as does nought but fight, home to my missis 
for to-night, and I’ll get a jug o’ tea. Them women always 
does best with tea, and such-like slop.” 

So Barton was now left alone with a little child, crying 
(when it had done eating) for mammy ; with a fainting, dead- 
like woman ; and with the sick man, whose mutterings were 

67 


Mary Barton 

rising up to screams and shrieks of agonised anxiety. He 
carried the woman to the fire, and chafed her hands. He 
looked around for something to raise her head. There was 
literally nothing but some loose bricks. However, those he 
got ; and taking off his coat he covered them with it as well 
as he could. He pulled her feet to the fire, which now 
began to emit some faint heat. He looked round for water, 
but the poor woman had been too weak to drag herself out 
to the distant pump, and water there was none. He snatched 
the child, and ran up the area-steps to the room above, and 
borrowed their only saucepan with some water in it. Then 
he began, with the useful skill of a working man, to make 
some gruel; and when it was hastily made, he seized a 
battered iron table-spoon (kept when many other little things 
had been sold in a lot), in order to feed baby, and with it he 
forced one or two drops between her clenched teeth. The 
mouth opened mechanically to receive more, and gradually 
she revived. She sat up and looked round ; and recollecting 
all, fell down again in weak and passive despair. Her little 
child crawled to her, and wiped with its fingers the thick- 
coming tears which she now had strength to weep. It was 
now high time to attend to the man. He lay on straw, 
so damp and mouldy, no dog would have chosen it in 
preference to flags : over it was a piece of sacking, coming 
next to his worn skeleton of a body; above him was 
mustered every article of clothing that could be spared by 
mother or children this bitter weather; and in addition to 
his own, these might have given as much warmth as one 
blanket, could they have been kept on him ; but, as he 
restlessly tossed to and fro, they fell off and left him shiver- 
ing in spite of the burning heat of his skin. Every now and 
then he started up in his naked madness, looking like the 
prophet of woe in the fearful plague-picture; but he soon 
fell again in exhaustion, and Barton found he must be closely 
watched, lest in these falls he should injure himself against 
the hard brick floor. He was thankful when Wilson re- 
appeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming tea, 

68 


Poverty and Death 

intended for the poor wife ; but when the delirious husband 
saw drink, he snatched at it with animal instinct, with a 
selfishness he had never shown in health. 

Then the two men consulted together. It seemed decided, 
without a word being spoken on the subject, that both 
should spend the night with the forlorn couple ; that was 
settled. But could no doctor be had? In all probability, 
no; the next day an Infirmary order must be begged, but 
meanwhile the only medical advice they could have must be 
from a druggist’s. So Barton (being the moneyed man) set 
out to find a shop in London Eoad. 

It is a pretty sight to walk through a street with lighted 
shops ; the gas is so brilliant, the display of goods so much 
more vividly shown than by day, and of all shops a druggist’s 
looks the most like the tales of our childhood, from Aladdin’s 
garden of enchanted fruits to the charming Eosamond with 
her purple jar. No such associations had Barton ; yet he 
felt the contrast between the well-filled, well-lighted shops 
and the dim gloomy cellar, and it made him moody that such 
contrasts should exist. They are the mysterious problem of 
life to more than him. He wondered if any in all the hurry- 
ing crowd had come from such a house of mourning. He 
thought they all looked joyous, and he was angry with them. 
But he could not, you cannot, read the lot of those who daily 
pass you by in the street. How do you know the wild 
romances of their fives ; the trials, the temptations they are 
even now enduring, resisting, sinking under ? You may be 
elbowed one instant by the girl desperate in her abandon- 
ment, laughing in mad merriment with her outward gesture, 
while her soul is longing for the rest of the dead, and 
bringing itself to think of the cold-flowing river as the 
only mercy of God remaining tp her here. You may pass 
the criminal, meditating crimes at which you will to-morrow 
shudder with horror as you read them. You may push 
against one, humble and unnoticed, the last upon earth, who 
in heaven will for ever be in the immediate fight of God’s 
countenance. Errands of mercy— errands of sin— did you 

69 


Mary Barton 

ever think where all the thousands of people you daily meet 
are bound ? Barton’s was an errand of mercy ; but the 
thoughts of his heart were touched by sin, by bitter hatred 
of the happy, whom he, for the time, confounded with the 
selfish. 

He reached a druggist’s shop and entered. The druggist 
(whose smooth manners seemed to have been salved over 
with his own spermaceti) listened attentively to Barton’s 
description of Davenport’s illness ; concluded it was typhus 
fever, very prevalent in that neighbourhood ; and proceeded 
to make up a bottle of medicine, sweet spirits of nitre, or 
some such innocent potion, very good for slight colds, but 
utterly powerless to stop, for an instant, the raging fever 
of the poor man it was intended to reheve. He recommended 
the same course they had previously determined to adopt, 
applying the next morning for an Infirmary order; and 
Barton left the shop with comfortable faith in the physic 
given him ; for men of his class, if they beheve in physic at 
all, believe that every description is equally efficacious. 

Meanwhile, Wilson had done what he could at Daven- 
port’s home. He had soothed, and covered the man many a 
time; he had fed and hushed the little child, and spoken 
tenderly to the woman, who lay still in her weakness and 
her weariness. He had opened a door, but only for an 
instant ; it led into a back cellar, with a grating instead of a 
window, down which dropped the moisture from pigsties, 
and worse abominations. It was not paved ; the fioor was 
one mass of bad smelling mud. It had never been used, for 
there was not an article of furniture in it ; nor could a human 
being, much less a pig, have hved there many days. Yet 
the “ back apartment ” made a difference in the rent. The 
Davenports paid threepence more for having two rooms. 
When he turned round again, he saw the woman suckling 
the child from her dry, withered breast. 

“ Surely the lad is weaned ! ” exclaimed he, in surprise. 

Why, how old is he ? 

“Going on two year,” she faintly answered. “But, oh! 

70 


Poverty and Death 

it keeps him quiet when I’ve nought else to gi’ him, and he’ll 
get a hit of sleep lying there, if he’s getten nought beside. 
We ban done our best to gi’ the childer * food, howe’er we 
pinch ourselves.” 

“ Han t ye had no money fra’ th’ town ? ” 

“ No ; my master is Buckinghamshire born ; and he’s 
feared the town would send him back to his parish, if he 
went to th’ board ; so we’ve just home on in hope o’ better 
times. But I think they’ll never come in my day,” and the 
poor woman began her weak high-pitched cry again. 

“ Here, sup t this drop o’ gruel, and then try and get a 
bit o’ sleep. John and I will watch by your master to- 
night.” 

“ God’s blessing be on you.” 

She finished the gruel, and fell into a deep sleep. Wilson 
covered her with his coat as well as he could, and tried to 
move lightly for fear of disturbing her ; but there need have 
been no such dread, for her sleep was profound and heavy 
with exhaustion. Once only she roused to pull the coat 
round her little child. 

And now Wilson’s care, and Barton’s to boot, was wanted 
to restrain the wild mad agony of the fevered man. He 
started up, he yelled, he seemed infuriated by overwhelming 
anxiety. He cursed and swore, which surprised Wilson, 
who knew his piety in health, and who did not know the 
unbridled tongue of delirium. At length he seemed ex- 
hausted, and fell asleep ; and Barton and Wilson drew near 
the fire, and talked together in whispers. They sat on the 
floor, for chairs there were none ; the sole table was an old 
tub turned upside down. They put out the candle and 
conversed by the flickering fire-light. 

“ Han yo known this chap long ? ” asked Barton. 

“ Better nor three year. He’s worked wi’ Carsons that 
long, and were always a steady, civil-spoken fellow, though, 

♦ Wicklifie uses “ childre ” in his “ Apology,” page 26. 

f “ What concord han light and dark.” — Spensee. 

J “And they soujpe the brothe thereof.” — S ie J. Mandeville. 

71 


Mary Barton 

as I said afore, somewhat of a Methodee. I wish I’d getten 
a letter he’d sent his missis, a week or two agone, when he 
were on tramp for work. It did my heart good to read it ; 
for, yo see, I were a bit grumbling mysel ; it seemed hard to 
be sponging on Jem, and taking a’ his flesh-meat money to 
buy bread for me and them as I ought to be keeping. But, 
yo know, though I can earn nought, I mun eat summut. 
Well, as I telled ye, I were grumbling, when she (indicating 
the sleeping woman by a nod) brought me Ben’s letter, for 
she could na’ read hersel. It were as good as Bible- words ; 
ne’er a word o’ repining; a’ about God being our Father, 
and that we mun bear patiently whate’er He sends.” 

“ Don ye think He’s th’ masters’ Father, too ? I’d be 
loth to have ’em for brothers.” 

“ Eh, John ! donna talk so ; sure there’s many and many 
a master as good or better nor us.” 

“ If you think so, tell me this. How comes it they’re 
rich, and we’re poor? I’d like to know that. Han they 
done as they’d be done by for us ? ” 

But Wilson was no arguer ; no speechifler, as he would 
have called it. So Barton, seeing he was likely to have it 
his own way, went on-. 

“ You’ll say (at least many a one does), they’n * getten 
capital an’ we’n getten none. I say, our labour’s our capital, 
and we ought to draw interest on that. They get interest 
on their capital somehow a’ this time, while ourn is lying 
idle, else how could they all live a^ they do? Besides 
there’s many on ’em has had nought to begin wi’ ; there’s 
Carsons, and Buncombes, and Mengies, and many another, 
as corned into Manchester with clothes to their back, and 
that were all, and now they’re worth their tens of thousands, 
a’ getten out of our labour; why, the very land as fetched 
but sixty pound twenty year agone is now worth six hundred, 
and that, too, is owing to our labour ; but look at yo, and see 
me, and poor Davenport yonder; whatten better are we? 
They’n screwed us down to th’ lowest peg, in order to make 
* “ They’n,” contraction of “ they han,” they have. 

7 2 


Poverty and Death 

their great big fortunes, and build their great big houses, and 
we, why we’re just clemming, many and many of us. Can 
you say there’s nought wrong in this ? ” 

“ Well, Barton, I’ll not gainsay ye. But Mr. Carson 
spoke to me after th’ fire, and says he, ‘I shall ha’ to 
retrench, and be very careful in my expenditure during these 
bad times, I assure ye ; ’ so yo see th’ masters suffer too.” 

“ Han they ever seen a child o’ their ’n die for want o’ 
food ? ” asked Barton, in a low deep voice. 

“ I donnot mean,” continued he, “ to say as I’m so badly 
off. I’d scorn to speak for mysel; but when I see such 
men as ©avenport there dying away, for very clemming, I 
cannot stand it. I’ve but gotten Mary, and she keeps herself 
pretty much. I think we’ll ha’ to give up housekeeping ; 
but that I donnot mind.” 

And in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy night 
of watching, wore away. As far as they could judge, Daven- 
port continued in the same state, although the symptoms 
varied occasionally. The wife slept on, only roused by the 
cry of her child now and then, which seemed to have power 
over her, when far louder noises failed to disturb her. The 
watchers agreed, that as soon as it was likely Mr. Carson 
would be up and visible, Wilson should go to his house, and 
beg for an Infirmary order. At length the grey dawn 
penetrated even into the dark cellar ; Davenport slept, and 
Barton was to remain there until Wilson’s return; so, 
stepping out into the fresh air, brisk and reviving, even in 
that street of abominations, Wilson took his way to Mr. 
Carson’s. 

Wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached 
Mr. Carson’s house, which was almost in the country. The 
streets were not yet bustling and busy. The shopmen were 
lazily taking down the shutters, although it was near eight 
o’clock; for the day was long enough for the purchases 
people made in that quarter of the town, while trade was so 
flat. One or two miserable-looking women were setting off 
on their day’s begging expedition. But there were few 

73 


Mary Barton 

people abroad. Mr. Carson’s was a good house, and furnished 
with disregard to expense. But, in addition to lavish ex- 
penditure, there was much taste shown, and many articles 
chosen for their beauty and elegance adorned his rooms. 
As Wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown 
open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he was tempted 
to stop and look; but then he thought it would not be 
respectful. So he hastened on to the kitchen door. The 
servants seemed very busy with preparations for breakfast ; 
but good-naturedly, though hastily, told him to step in, and 
they could soon let Mr. Carson know he was there. So he 
was ushered into a kitchen hung round with glittering tins, 
where a roaring fire burnt merrily, and where numbers of 
utensils hung round, at whose nature and use Wilson amused 
himself by guessing. Meanwhile, the servants bustled to 
and fro ; an outdoor man-servant came in for orders, and sat 
down near Wilson. The cook broiled steaks, and the kitchen- 
maid toasted bread, and boiled eggs. 

The coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the 
odours were so mixed and appetising, that Wilson began to 
yearn for food to break his fast, which had lasted since 
dinner the day before. If the servants had known this, they 
would have willingly given him meat and bread in abund- 
ance ; but they were like the rest of us, and, not feeling 
hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might. So 
Wilson’s craving turned to sickness, while they chatted on, 
making the kitchen’s free and keen remarks upon the 
parlour. 

“ How late you were last night, Thomas ! ” 

“ Yes, I was right weary of waiting ; they told me to be 
at the rooms by twelve ; and there I was. But it was two 
o’clock before they called me.” 

“ And did you wait all that time in the street ? ” asked 
the housemaid, who had done her work for the present, and 
come into the kitchen for a bit of gossip. 

“ My eye as like I you don’t think I’m such a fool as to 
catch my death of cold, and let the horses catch their death 

74 


Poverty and Death 

too, as we should ha’ done if we’d stopped there. No ! I 
put th’ horses up in th’ stables at th’ Spread Eagle, and 
went mysel, and got a glass or two by th’ fire. They’re 
driving a good custom, them, wi’ coachmen. There were 
five on us, and we’d many a quart o’ ale, and gin wi’ it, to 
keep out th’ cold.” 

“ Mercy on us, Thomas ; you’ll get a drunkard at last ! ” 

“If I do, I know whose blame it will be. It will be 
missis’s, and not mine. Flesh and blood can’t sit to be 
starved to death on a coach-box, waiting for folks as don’t 
know their own mind.” 

A servant, semi-upper-housemaid, semi-lady’s-maid, now 
came down with orders from her mistress. 

“ Thomas, you must ride to the fishmonger’s, and say 
missis can’t give above half-a-crown a pound for salmon for 
Tuesday; she’s grumbling because trade’s so bad. And 
she’ll want the carriage at three to go to the lecture, 
Thomas ; at the Eoyal Execution, you know.” 

“ Ay, ay, I know.” 

“ And you’d better all of you mind your P’s and Q’s, for 
she’s very black this morning. She’s got a bad headache.” 

“ It’s a pity Miss Jenkins is not here to match her. 
Lord ! how she and missis did quarrel which had got the 
worst headaches ; it was that Miss J enkins left for ; she 
would not give up having bad headaches, and missis could 
not abide any one to have ’em but herself.” 

“ Missis will have her breakfast upstairs, cook, and the 
cold partridge as was left yesterday, and put plenty of cream 
in her coffee, and she thinks there’s a roll left, and she would 
like it well buttered.” 

So saying, the maid left the kitchen to be ready to attend 
to the young ladies’ bell when they chose to ring, after their 
late assembly the night before. 

In the luxurious library, at the well-spread breakfast- 
table, sat the two Mr. Carsons, father and son. Both were 
reading — the father a newspaper, the son a review — while 
they lazily enjoyed their nicely prepared food. The father 

75 


Mary Barton 

was a prepossessing-looking old man ; perhaps self-indulgent 
you might guess. The son was strikingly handsome, and 
knew it. His dress was neat and well appointed, and his 
manners far more gentlemanly than his father’s. He was 
the only son, and his sisters were proud of him ; his father 
and mother were proud of him : he could not set up his 
judgment against theirs ; he was proud of himself. 

The door opened, and in bounded Amy, the sweet youngest 
daughter of the house, a lovely girl of sixteen, fresh and 
glowing, and bright as a rosebud. She was too young to go 
to assemblies, at which her father rejoiced, for he had little 
Amy with her pretty jokes, and her bird-like songs, and her 
playful caresses all the evening to amuse him in his loneliness ; 
and she was not too much tired, like Sophy and Helen, to 
give him her sweet company at breakfast the next morning. 

He submitted willingly while she blinded him with her 
hands, and kissed his rough red face all over. She took his 
newspaper away after a little pretended resistance, and would 
not allow her brother Harry to go on with his review. 

“ I’m the only lady this morning, papa, so you know you 
must make a great deal of me.” 

“ My darling, I think you have your own way pdways, 
whether you’re the only lady or not.” 

“ Yes, papa, you’re pretty good and obedient, I must say 
that ; but I’m sorry to say Harry is very naughty, and does 
not do what I tell him ; do you, Harry ? ” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know what you mean to accuse me of, 
Amy ; I expected praise and not blame ; for did I not get 
you that eau de Portugal from town, that you could not meet 
with at Hughes’, you little ungrateful puss ? ” 

“ Did you ? Oh, sweet Harry ; you’re as sweet as eau de 
Portugal yourself ; you’re almost as good as papa ; but still 
you know you did go and forget to ask Bigland for that rose, 
that new rose they say he has got.” 

“No, Amy, I did not forget. I asked him, and he has 
got the Eose, sans rip'oche : but do you know, little Miss Ex- 
travagance, a very small one is half-a-guinea ? ” 

76 


Poverty and Death 

“ Oh, I don’t mind. Papa will give it me, won’t you, 
dear father ? He knows his little daughter can’t live without 
flowers and scents.” 

Mr. Carson tried to refuse his darling, but she coaxed 
him into acquiescence, saying she must have it, it was one 
of her necessaries. Life was not worth having without 
flowers. 

“ Then, Amy,” said her brother, “ try and be content with 
peonies and dandelions.” 

“ Oh, you wretch ! I don’t call them flowers. Besides, 
you’re every bit as extravagant. Who gave half-a-crown for 
a bunch of lilies of the valley at Yates’, a month ago, and 
then would not let his poor little sister have them, though 
she went on her knees to beg them? Answer me that. 
Master Hal.” 

“Not on compulsion,” replied her brother, smiling 
with his mouth, while his eyes had an irritated expression, 
and he went first red, then pale, with vexed embarrass- 
ment. 

“ If you please, sir,” said a servant, entering the room, 
“ here’s one of the mill people wanting to see you ; his name 
is Wilson, he says.” 

“I’ll come to him directly; stay, tell him to come in 
here.” 

Amy danced off into the conservatory which opened out 
of the room, before the gaunt, pale, unwashed, unshaven 
weaver was ushered in. There he stood at the door sleeking 
his hair with old country habit, and every now and then 
stealing a glance round at the splendour of the apartment. 

“ Well, Wilson, and what do you want to-day, man ? ” 

“ Please, sir, Davenport’s ill of the fever, and I’m come 
to know if you’ve got an Infirmary order for him ? ” 

“ Davenport — Davenport ; who is the fellow ? I don’t 
know the name.” 

“ He’s worked in your factory better nor three years, 

• If 

“ Very likely ; I don’t pretend to know the names of the 
77 


sir. 


Mary Barton 

men I employ ; that I leave to the overlooker. So he’s ill, 
eh?” . 

“ Ay, sir, he’s very had ; we want to get him in at the 
Fever Wards.” 

“ I doubt if I’ve an in-patient’s order to spare at present ; 
but I’ll give you an out-patient’s and welcome.” 

So saying, he rose up, unlocked a drawer, pondered a 
minute, and then gave Wilson an out-patient’s order. 

Meanwhile, the younger Mr. Carson had ended his re- 
view, and began to listen to what was going on. He finished 
his breakfast, got up, and pulled five shillings out of his 
pocket, which he gave to Wilson as he passed him, for the 
“ poor fellow.” He went past quickly, and calling for his 
horse, mounted gaily, and rode away. He was anxious to 
be in time to have a look and a smile from lovely Mary 
Barton, as she went to Miss Simmonds’. But to-day he was 
to be disappointed. Wilson left the house, not knowing 
whether to be pleased or grieved. They had all spoken 
kindly to him, and who could tell if they might not inquire 
into Davenport’s case, and do something for him and his 
family. Besides, the cook, who, when she had had time to 
think, after breakfast was sent in, had noticed his paleness, 
had had meat and bread ready to put in his hand when he 
came out of the parlour ; and a full stomach makes every 
one of us more hopeful. 

When he reached Berry Street, he had persuaded himself 
he bore good news, and felt almost elated in his heart. But 
it fell when he opened the cellar- door, and saw Barton and 
the wife both bending over the sick man’s couch with awe- 
struck, saddened look. 

“ Come here,” said Barton. “ There’s a change corned 
over him sin’ yo left, is there not ? ” 

Wilson looked. The flesh was sunk, the features pro- 
minent, bony, and rigid. The fearful clay-colour of death 
was over all. But the eyes were open and sensitive, though 
the films of the grave were setting upon them. 

“ He wakened fra’ his sleep, as yo left him in, and began 

78 


Poverty and Death 

to mutter and moan ; but he soon went off again, and we 
never knew he were awake till he called his wife, but now 
she’s here he’s gotten nought to say to her.” 

Most probably, as they all felt, he could not speak, for 
his strength was fast ebbing. They stood round him still 
and silent ; even the wife checked her sobs, though her heart 
was like to break. She held her child to her breast, to try 
and keep him quiet. Their eyes were all fixed on the yet 
living one, whose moments of life were passing so rapidly 
away. At length he brought (with jerking convulsive effort) 
his two hands into the attitude of prayer. They saw his lips 
move, and bent to catch the words, which came in gasps, 
and not in tones. 

“ O Lord God ! I thank thee, that the hard struggle of 
living is over.” 

“ O Ben ! Ben ! ” wailed forth his wife, “ have you no 
thought for me ? O Ben ! Ben ! do say one word to help 
me through life.” 

He could not speak again. The trump of the archangel 
would set his tongue free ; but not a word more would it 
utter till then. Yet he heard, he understood, and, though 
sight failed, he moved his hands gropingly over the covering. 
They knew what he meant, and guided it to her head, bowed 
and hidden in her hands, when she had sunk in her woe. 
It rested there with a feeble pressure of endearment. The 
face grew beautiful, as the soul neared God. A peace beyond 
understanding came over it. The hand was a heavy stifl 
weight on the wife’s head. No more grief or sorrow for him. 
They reverently laid out the corpse — Wilson fetching his 
only spare shirt to array it in. The wife still lay hidden in 
the clothes, in a stupor of agony. 

There was a knock at the door, and Barton went to open 
it. It was Mary, who had received a message from her 
father, through a neighbour, telling her where he was ; and 
she had set out early to come and have a word with him 
before her day’s work ; but some errands she had to do for 
Miss Simmonds had detained her until now. 

79 


Mary Barton 

Come in, wench ! ” said her father. “ Try if thou canst 
comfort yon poor, poor woman, kneeling down there. God 
help her ! ” Mary did not know what to say, or how to 
comfort ; but she knelt down by her, and put her arm round 
her neck, and in a little while fell to crying herself so bitterly 
that the source of tears was opened by sympathy in the 
widow, and her full heart was, for a time, relieved. 

And Mary forgot all purposed meeting with her gay lover, 
Harry Carson ; forgot Miss Simmonds’ errands, and her 
anger, in the anxious desire to comfort the poor lone woman. 
Never had her sweet face looked more angelic, never had her 
gentle voice seemed so musical as when she murmured her 
broken sentences of comfort. 

“ Oh, don’t cry so, dear Mrs. Davenport, pray don’t take 
on so. Sure he’s gone where he’ll never know care again. 
Yes, I know how lonesome you must feel ; but think of your 
children. Oh ! we’ll all help to earn food for ’em. Think 
how sorry he’d be, if he sees you fretting so. Don’t cry so, 
please don’t.” 

And she ended by crying herself as passionately as the 
poor widow. 

• It was agreed the town must bury him ; he had paid to a 
burial club as long as he could, but, by a few weeks’ omission, 
he had forfeited his claim to a sum of money now. Would 
Mrs. Davenport and the little child go home with Mary? 
The latter brightened up as she urged this plan ; but no ! 
where the poor, fondly loved remains were, there would the 
mourner be ; and all that they could do was to make her ae 
comfortable as their funds would allow, and to beg a neigh- 
bour to look in and say a word at times. So she was left 
alone with her dead, and they went to work that had work, 
and he who had none took upon him the arrangements for 
the funeral. 

Mary had many a scolding from Miss Simmonds that 
day for her absence of mind. To be sure Miss Simmonds 
was much put out by Mary’s non-appearance in the morning 
with certain bits of muslin, and shades of silk which were 

8o 


Poverty and Death 

wanted to complete a dress to be worn that night ; but it was 
true enough that Mary did not mind what she was about ; 
she was too busy planning how her old black gown (her best 
when her mother died) might be sponged, and turned, and 
lengthened into something like decent mourning for the 
widow. And when she went home at night (though it was 
very late), as a sort of retribution for her morning’s negli- 
gence, she set to work at once, and was so busy and so glad 
over her task, that she had, every now and then, to cheek 
herself in singing merry ditties, which she felt little accorded 
with the sewing on which she was engaged. 

So when the funeral day came, Mrs. Davenport was 
neatly arrayed in black, a satisfaction to her poor heart in 
the midst of her sorrow. Barton and Wilson both accom- 
panied her, as she led her two elder boys, and followed the 
cofi&n. It was a simple walking funeral, with nothing to 
grate on the feelings of any ; far more in accordance with its 
purpose, to my mind, than the gorgeous hearses, and nodding 
plumes, which form the grotesque funeral pomp of respectable 
people. There was no “ rattling the bones over the stones,” 
of the pauper’s funeral. Decently and quietly was he 
followed to the grave by one determined to endure her woe 
meekly for his sake. The only mark of pauperism attendant 
on the burial concerned the living and joyous, far more than 
the dead, or the sorrowful. When they arrived in the 
churchyard, they halted before a raised and handsome tomb- 
stone ; in reality a wooden mockery of stone respectabilities 
which adorned the burial-ground. It was easily raised in a 
very few minutes, and below was the grave in which pauper 
bodies were piled until within a foot or two of the surface ; 
when the soil was shovelled over, and stamped down, and 
the wooden cover went to do temporary duty over another 
hcle.* But little recked they of this who now gave up their 
dead. 

♦ The case, to my certain knowledge, in one churchyard in Man- 
chester. There may be more. 


8i 


G 


Mary Barton 


OHAPTEE VII 

JEM Wilson’s repulse 

“ How infinite the wealth of love and hope 
Garnered in these same tiny treasure-houses ! 

And oh ! what bankrupts in the world we feel, 

When Death, like some remorseless creditor, 

Seizes on all we fondly thought our own.” 

“The Twins.” 

The ghoul-like fever was not to be braved with impunity, 
and balked of its prey. The widow had reclaimed her 
children ; her neighbours, in the good- Samaritan sense of the 
word, had paid her little arrears of rent, and made her a few 
shillings beforehand with the world. She determined to flit 
from that cellar to another less full of painful associations, 
less haunted by mournful memories. The board, not so 
formidable as she had imagined, had inquired into her case ; 
and, instead of sending her to Stoke Claypole, her husband’s 
Buckinghamshire parish, as she had dreaded, had agreed to 
pay her rent. So food for four mouths was all she was now 
required to find; only for three she would have said; for 
herself and the unweaned child were but reckoned as one in 
her calculation. 

She had a strong heart, now her bodily strength had 
been recruited by a week or two of food, and she would not 
despair. So she took in some little children to nurse, who 
brought their daily food with them, which she cooked for 
them, without wronging their helplessness of a crumb ; and 
when she had restored them to their mothers at night, she 
set to work at plain sewing, “ seam, and gusset, and band,” 
and sat thinking how she might best cheat the factory 
inspector, and persuade him that her strong, big, hungry 
Ben was above thirteen. Her plan of living was so far 
arranged, when she heard, with keen sorrow, that Wilson’s 
twin lads were ill of the fever. 

.82 


Jem Wilson’s Repulse 

They had never been strong. They were like many a 
pair of twins, and seemed to have but one life divided 
between them. One life, one strength, and in this instance, 
I might almost say, one brain ; for they were helpless, gentle, 
silly children, but not the less dear to their parents and 
to their strong, active, manly, elder brother. They were late 
on their feet, in talking, late every way ; had to be nursed 
and cared for when other lads of their age were tumbling 
about in the street, and losing themselves, and being taken 
to the police-office miles away from home. 

Still want had never yet come in at the door to make 
love for these innocents fly out of the window. Nor was 
this the case even now, when Jem Wilson’s earnings, and 
his mother’s occasional charings, were barely sufficient to 
give all the family their fill of food. 

But when the twins, after ailing many days, and caring 
little for their meat, fell sick on the same afternoon, with the 
same heavy stupor of suffering, the three hearts that loved 
them so each felt, though none acknowledged to the other, 
that they had little chance for life. It was nearly a week 
before the tale of their illness spread as far as the court where 
the Wilsons had once dwelt, and the Bartons yet lived. 

Alice had heard of the sickness of her little nephews 
several days before, and had locked her cellar door, and gone 
off straight to her brother’s house, in Ancoats ; but she was 
often absent for days, sent for, as her neighbours knew, to 
help in some sudden emergency of illness or distress, so that 
occasioned no surprise. 

Margaret met Jem Wilson several days after his brothers 
were seriously ill, and heard from him the state of things at 
his home. She told Mary of it as she entered the court late 
that evening ; and Mary listened with saddened heart to the 
strange contrast which such woeful tidings presented to the 
gay and loving words she had been hearing on her walk 
home. She blamed herself for being so much taken up with 
visions of the golden future that she had lately gone but 
i^eldom on Sunday afternoons, or other leisure time, to see 

83 


Mary Barton 

Mrs. Wilson, her mother’s friend ; and with hasty purpose 
of amendment she only stayed to leave a message for her 
father with the next-door neighbour, and then went off at a 
brisk pace on her way to the house of mourning. 

She stopped with her hand on the latch of the Wilsons’ 
door, to still her beating heart, and listened to the hushed 
quiet within. She opened the door softly: there sat Mrs. 
Wilson in the old rocking-chair, with one sick, death-like boy 
lying on her knee, crying without let or pause, but softly, 
gently, as fearing to disturb the troubled, gasping child; 
while behind her, old Alice let her fast-dropping tears fall 
down on the dead body of the other twin, which she was 
laying out on a board placed on a sort of sofa- settee in a 
corner of the room. Over the child, which yet breathed, the 
father bent, watching anxiously for some ground of hope, 
where hope there was none. Mary stepped slowly and 
lightly across to Alice. 

“ Ay, poor lad ! God has taken him early, Mary.” 

Mary could not speak, she did not know what to say ; it 
was so much worse than she had expected. At last she 
S^ntured to whisper — 

“ Is there any chance for the other one, think you ? ” 

Alice shook her head, and told with a look that she 
believed there was none. She next endeavoured to lift the 
little body, and carry it to its old accustomed bed in its 
parents’ room. But earnest as the father was in watching 
the yet-living, he had eyes and ears for all that concerned 
the dead, and sprang gently up, and took his dead son on his 
hard couch in his arms with tender strength, and carried him 
upstairs as if afraid of wakening him. 

The other child gasped longer, louder, with more of effort. 

“We mun get him away from his mother. He cannot 
die while she’s wishing him.” 

“ Wishing him ? ” said Mary, in a tone of inquiry. 

“ Ay ; donno’ ye know what ‘ wishing ’ means ? There’s 
none can die in the arms of those who are wishing them 
sore to stay on earth. The soul o’ them as holds them won’t 

84 


Jem Wilson’s Repulse 

let the dying soul go free ; so it has a hard struggle for the 
quiet of death. We mun get him away fra’ his mother, or 
he’ll have a hard death, poor lile * fellow.” 

So without circumlocution she went and offered to take 
the sinking child. But the mother would not let him go, 
and looking in Alice’s face with brimming and imploring 
eyes, declared, in earnest whispers, that she was not wishing 
him, that she would fain have him released from his suffering. 
Alice and Mary stood by with eyes fixed on the poor child, 
whose struggles seemed to increase, till at last his mother 
said, with a choking voice — 

“ May happen f yo’d better take him, Alice ; I believe my 
heart’s wishing him a’ this while, for I cannot, no, I cannot 
bring mysel to let my two childer go in one day ; I cannot 
help longing to keep him, and yet he sha’n’t suffer longer 
for me.” 

She bent down, and fondly, oh ! with what passionate fond- 
ness, kissed her child, and then gave him up to Alice, who 
took him with tender care. Nature’s struggles were soon 
exhausted, and he breathed his little life away in peace. 

Then the mother lifted up her voice and wept. Her cries 
brought her husband down to try with his aching heart to 
comfort hers. Again Alice laid out the dead, Mary helping 
with reverent fear. The father and mother carried him 
upstairs to the bed, where his little brother lay in calm 
repose. 

Mary and Alice drew near the fire, and stood in quiet 
sorrow for some time. Then Alice broke the silence by 
saying— 

“It will be bad news for Jem, poor fellow, when he 
comes home.” 

“ Where is he ? ” asked Mary. 

“ Working over-hours at th’ shop. They’n gotten a large 

♦ “ Lile,” a north-country word for “ little.” 

“ Wit leil labour to live .” — Piers Plowman. 

I “May happen,” perhaps. 


85 


Mary Barton 

order fra’ forrin parts ; and yo know, Jem mun work, though 
his heart’s well nigh breaking for these poor laddies.” 

Again they were silent in thought, and again Alice spoke 
first. 

“ I sometimes think the Lord is against planning. 
Whene’er I plan over-much. He is sure to send and mar 
all my plans, as if He would ha’ me put the future into His 
hands. Afore Christmas-time I was as full as full could be, 
of going home for good and all ; yo ban heard how I’ve 
wished it this terrible long time. And a young lass from 
behind Burton came into place in Manchester last Martinmas ; 
so after awhile she had a Sunday out, and she comes to me, 
and tells me some cousins o’ mine bid her find me out, and 
say how glad they should be to ha’ me to bide wi’ ’em, and 
look after th’ childer, for they’n gotten a big farm, and she’s 
a deal to do among th’ cows. So many’s a winter’s night 
did I lie awake and think, that please God, come summer, 
I’d bid George and his wife good-bye, and go home at last. 
Little did I think how God Almighty would balk me, for not 
leaving my days in His Hands, who had led me through the 
wilderness hitherto. Here’s George out of work, and more 
cast down than ever I seed him ; wanting every chip o’ 
comfort he can get, e’en afore this last heavy stroke ; and 
now I’m thinking the Lord’s finger points very clear to my 
fit abiding-place ; and I’m sure if George and Jane can say 
‘ His will be done,’ it’s no more than what I’m beholden 
to do.” 

So saying, she fell to tidying the room, removing as much 
as she could every vestige of sickness ; making up the fire, 
and setting on the kettle for a cup of tea for her sister-in-law, 
whose low moans and sobs were occasionally heard in the 
room below. 

Mary helped her in all these little offices. They were 
busy in this way when the door was softly opened, and Jem 
came in, all grimed and dirty from his night- work, his soiled 
apron wrapped round his middle, in guise and apparel in 
which he would have been sorry at another time to have 

86 


Jem Wilson’s Repulse 

been seen by Mary. But just now he hardly saw her ; he 
went straight up to Alice, and asked how the little chaps were. 
They had been a shade better at dinner-time, and he had 
been working away through the long afternoon, and far into 
the night, in the belief that they had taken the turn. He 
had stolen out during the half-hour allowed at the works for 
tea, to buy them an orange or two, which now puffed out his 
jacket-pocket. 

He would make his aunt speak : he would not under- 
stand her shake of the head and fast coursing tears. 

“ They’re both gone,” said she. 

“ Dead ! ” 

“ Ay ! poor fellows. They took worse about two o’clock. 
Joe went first, as easy as a lamb, and Will died harder like.” 

“ Both ! ” 

“ Ay, lad ! both. The Lord has ta’en them from some 
evil to come, or He would na’ ha made choice o’ them. Ye 
may rest sure o’ that.” 

Jem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated from his 
pocket the oranges he had bought. But he stayed long 
there, and at last his sturdy frame shook with his strong 
agony. The two women were frightened, as women always 
are, on witnessing a man’s overpowering grief. They cried 
afresh in company. Mary’s heart melted within her as she 
witnessed Jem’s sorrow, and she stepped gently up to the 
corner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and 
putting her hand softly on his arm, said — 

“ O Jem, don’t give way so ; I cannot bear to see 
you.” 

Jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the 
power she had of comforting him. He did not speak, as 
though fearing to destroy by sound or motion the happiness 
of that moment, when her soft hand’s touch thrilled through 
his frame, and her silvery voice was whispering tenderness 
in his ear. Yes ! it might be very wrong ; he could almost 
hate himself for it ; with death and woe so surrounding him, 
it yet was happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken to by Mary. 

87 


Mary Barton 

“ Don’t Jem, please don’t,” whispered she again, believing 
that his silence was only another form of grief. 

He could not contain himself. He took her hand in his 
firm yet trembhng grasp, and said, in tones that instantly 
produced a revulsion in her mood — 

“ Mary, I almost loathe myself when I feel I would not 
give up this minute, when my brothers lie dead, and father 
and mother are in such trouble, for all my life that’s past 
and gone. And, Mary (as she tried to release her hand), 
you know what makes me feel so blessed.” 

She did know — he was right there. But as he turned 
to catch a look at her sweet face, he saw that it expressed 
unfeigned distress, almost amounting to vexation; a dread 
of him, that he thought was almost repugnance. 

He let her hand go, and she quickly went away to Alice’s 
side. 

“ Fool that I was — nay, wretch that I was — to let myself 
take this time of trouble to tell her how I loved her; no 
wonder that she turns away from such a selfish beast.” 

Partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from 
natural desire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent wish to 
share to the utmost his parents’ sorrow, he soon went 
upstairs to the chamber of death. 

Mary mechanically helped Alice in all the duties she 
performed through the remainder of that long night, but she 
did not see Jem again. He remained upstairs until after 
the early dawn showed Mary that she need have no fear of 
going home through the deserted and quiet streets, to try 
and get a little sleep before work-hour. So leaving kind 
messages to George and Jane Wilson, and hesitating whether 
she might dare to send a few kind words to Jem, and 
deciding that she had better not, she stepped out into the 
bright morning light, so fresh a contrast to the darkened 
room where death had been. 

“ They had 
Another morn than ours.” 

Mary lay down on her bed in her clothes ; and whether 

88 


Jem Wilson’s Repulse 

it was this, or the broad daylight that poured in through the 
sky window, or whether it was over-excitement, it was long 
before she could catch a wink of sleep. Her thoughts ran 
on Jem’s manner and words ; not but what she had known 
the tale they told for many a day ; but still she wished he 
had not put it so plainly. 

“ O dear,” said she to herself, “ I wish he would not 
mistake me so; I never dare to speak a common word o’ 
kindness, but his eye brightens and his cheek flushes. It’s 
very hard on me; for father and George Wilson are old 
friends ; and Jem and I ha’ known each other since we were 
quite children. I cannot think what possesses me, that I 
must always be wanting to comfort him when he’s down- 
cast, and that I must go meddling wi’ him to-night, when 
sure enough it was his aunt’s place to speak to him. I don’t 
care for him, and yet, unless I’m always watching myself, 
I’m speaking to him in a loving voice. I think I cannot go 
right, for I either check myself till I’m downright cross to 
him, or else I speak just natural, and that’s too kind and 
tender by half. And I’m as good as engaged to be married 
to another; and another far handsomer than Jem; only I 
think I like Jem’s face best for all that ; liking’s liking, 
and there’s no help for it. Well, when I’m Mrs. Harry 
Carson, may happen I can put some good fortune in Jem’s 
way. But will he thank me for it? He’s rather savage 
at times, that I can see, and perhaps kindness from me, 
when I’m another’s, will only go against the grain. I’ll not 
plague myself wi’ thinking any more about him, that I won’t.” 

So she turned on her pillow, and fell asleep, and dreamt 
of what was often in her waking thoughts ; of the day when 
she should ride from church in her carriage, with wedding- 
bells ringing, and take up her astonished father, and drive 
away from the old dim work-a-day court for ever, to live in 
a grand house, where her father should have newspapers, 
and pamphlets, and pipes, and meat dinners, every day, — 
and all day long if he liked. 

Such thoughts mingled in her predilection for the 
89 


Mary Barton 

handsome young Mr. Carson, who, unfettered by work-hours, 
let scarcely a day pass without contriving a meeting with the 
beautiful little milliner he had first seen while lounging in 
a shop where his sisters were making some purchases, and 
afterwards never rested till he had freely, though respectfully, 
made her acquaintance in her daily walks. He was, to use 
his own expression to himself, quite infatuated by her, and 
was restless each day till the time came when he had a 
chance, and, of late, more than a chance of meeting her. 
There was something of keen practical shrewdness about 
her, which contrasted very hewitchingly with the simple, 
foolish, unworldly ideas she had picked up from the romances 
which Miss Simmonds’ young ladies were in the habit of 
recommending to each other. 

Yes ! Mary was ambitious, and did not favour Mr. Carson 
the less because he was rich and a gentleman. The old 
leaven, infused years ago hy her aunt Esther, fermented in 
her little bosom, and perhaps all the more, for her father’s 
aversion to the rich and the gentle. Such is the contrariness 
of the human heart, from Eve downwards, that we all, in 
our old Adam state, fancy things forbidden sweetest. So 
Mary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day becoming 
a lady, and doing all the elegant nothings appertaining to 
ladyhood. It was a comfort to her, when scolded hy Miss 
Simmonds, to think of the day when she would drive up to 
the door in her own carriage, to order her gowns from the 
hasty-tempered yet kind dressmaker. It was a pleasure to 
her to hear the general admiration of the two elder Miss 
Carsons, acknowledged beauties in ball-room and street, on 
horseback and on foot, and to think of the time when she 
should ride and walk with them in loving sisterhood. But the 
best of her plans, the holiest, that which in some measure 
redeemed the vanity of the rest, were those relating to her 
father ; her dear father, now oppressed with care, and always 
a disheartened, gloomy person. How she would surround 
him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he was 
to live with them), till he should acknowledge riches to he 

90 


Jem Wilson’s Repulse 

very pleasant things, and bless his lady-daughter! Every 
one who had shown her kindness in her low estate should 
then be repaid a hundredfold. 

Such were the castles in air, the Alnaschar-visions in 
which Mary indulged, and which she was doomed in after 
days to expiate with many tears. 

Meanwhile, her words — or, even more, her tones — would 
maintain their hold on Jem Wilson’s memory. A thrill 
would yet come over him when he remembered how her hand 
had rested on his arm. The thought of her mingled with 
all his grief, and it was profound, for the loss of his brothers. 


CHAPTER VIII 

Margaret’s d^but as a public singer 

** Deal gently with them, they have much endured ; 

Scoff not at their fond hopes and earnest plans, 

Though they may seem to thee wild dreams and fancies. 
Perchance, in the rough school of stem Experience, 

They’ve something learned which Theory does not teach ; 

Or if they greatly err, deal gently still. 

And let their error but the stronger plead 
‘ Give us the light and guidance that we need ! * ” 

Love Thoughts. 

One Sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that mournful 
night, Jem Wilson set out with the ostensible purpose of 
calling on John Barton. He was dressed in his best, his 
Sunday suit of course ; while his face glittered with the 
scrubbing he had bestowed on it. His dark black hair had 
been arranged and rearranged before the household looking- 
glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus (a sweet 
Nancy is its pretty Lancashire name), hoping it would 
attract Mary’s notice, so that he might have the delight of 
giving it her. 


91 


Mary Barton 

It was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that Mary 
saw him some minutes before he came into her father’s 
house. She was sitting at the end of the dresser, with the 
httle window-blind drawn on one side, in order that she 
might see the passers-by, in the intervals of reading her 
Bible, which lay open before her. So she watched all the 
greeting a friend gave Jem ; she saw the face of condolence, 
the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time to arrange 
her own face and manner before Jem came in, which he did, 
as if he had eyes for no one but her father, who sat smoking 
his pipe by the fire, while he read an old Nwihern Star, 
borrowed from a neighbouring public-house. 

Then he turned to Mary, who, he felt through the sure 
instinct ' of love, by which almost his body thought, was 
present. Her hands were busy adjusting her dress ; a forced 
and unnecessary movement, Jem could not help thinking. 
Her accost was quiet and friendly, if grave ; she felt that she 
reddened like a rose, and wished she could prevent it, while 
Jem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, or anger, or 
love. 

She was very cunning, I am afraid. She pretended to 
read diligently, and not to hsten to a word that was said, 
while in fact she heard all sounds, even to Jem’s long, deep 
sighs, which wrung her heart. At last she took up her 
Bible, and as if their conversation disturbed her, went up- 
stairs to her little room. And she had scarcely spoken a 
word to Jem ; scarcely looked at him ; never noticed his 
beautiful sweet Nancy, which only awaited her least word of 
praise to be hers ! He did not know — that pang was spared 
— that in her little dingy bedroom stood a white jug filled 
with a luxurious bunch of early spring roses, making the 
whole room fragrant and bright. They were the gift of 
her richer lover. So Jem had to go on sitting with John 
Barton, fairly caught in his own trap, and had to listen to 
his talk, and answer him as best he might. 

“There’s the right stuff in this here Star, and 
mistake. Such a right-down piece for short hours.” 

92 


no 


Margaret’s Debut as a Public Singer 

“ At the same rate of wages as now ? ” asked Jem. 

“ Aye, aye ! else where’s the use ? It’s only taking out 
o’ the masters’ pocket what they can well afford. Did I ever 
tell yo what th’ Infirmary chap let me into, many a year 
agone ? ” 

“No,” said Jem listlessly. 

“ Well ! yo must know I were in th’ Infirmary for a 
fever, and times were rare and bad, and there be good chaps 
there to a man, while he’s wick,* whate’er they may be 
about cutting him up at after.f So when I were better o’ 
th’ fever, but weak as water, they says to me, says they, ‘ If 
yo can write, you may stay in a week longer, and help our 
surgeon wi’ sorting his papers ; and we’ll take care yo’ve 
your bellyful of meat and drink. Yo’ll be twice as strong in 
a week.’ So there wanted but one word to that bargain. 
So I were set to writing and copying ; th’ writing I could do 
well enough, but they’d such queer ways o’ spelling, that I’d 
ne’er been used to, that I’d to look first at th’ copy and then 
at my letters, for all the world like a cock picking up grains 
o’ corn. But one thing startled me e’en then, and I thought 
I’d make bold to ask the surgeon the meaning o’t. I’ve 
getten no head for numbers, but this I know, that by far th’ 
greater part o’ the accidents as corned in happened in th’ last two 
hmrs o’ work, when folk getten tired and careless. Th’ 
surgeon said it were all true, and that he were going to 
bring that fact to light.” 

Jem was pondering Mary’s conduct ; but the pause made 
him aware he ought to utter some civil listening noise ; so 
he said — 

“ Very true.” 

“Ay, it’s true enough, my lad, that we’re sadly over- 
borne, and worse will come of it afore long. Block-printers 

* “ Wick,” alive. Anglo-Saxon, cwic. “ The quick and the dead.” 
— Book of Common Prayer. 
t “At after.” 

At after souper goth this noble king.” 

Chaucer, The Squire's Tale* 


93 


Mary Barton 

is going to strike ; they’n getten a bang-up Union, as won’t 
let ’em be put upon. But there’s many a thing will happen 
afore long, as folk don’t expect. Yo may take my word for 
that, Jem.” 

Jem was very wilhng to take it, but did not express the 
curiosity he should have done. So J ohn Barton thought he’d 
try another hint or two. 

“ Working folk won’t be ground to the dust much longer. 
We’n a’ had as much to bear as human nature can bear. 
So, if th’ masters can’t do us no good, and they say they 
can’t, we mun try higher folk.” 

Still Jem was not curious. He gave up hope of seeing 
Mary again by her own good free-will; and the next best 
thing would be, to be alone to think of her. So muttering 
something which he meant to serve as an excuse for his 
sudden departure, he hastily wished John good- afternoon, 
and left him to resume his pipe and his pohtics. 

For three years past trade had been getting worse and 
worse, and the price of provisions higher and higher. This 
disparity between the amount of the earnings of the working 
classes and the price of their food, occasioned, in more cases 
than could well be imagined, disease and death. Whole 
families went through a gradual starvation. They only 
wanted a Dante to record their sufferings. And yet even 
his words would fall short of the awful truth; they could 
only present an outline of the tremendous facts of the 
destitution that surrounded thousands upon thousands in 
the terrible years 1839, 1840, and 1841. Even philanthro- 
pists who had studied the subject, were forced to own them- 
selves perplexed in their endeavour to ascertain the real 
causes of the misery ; the whole matter was of so comphcated 
a nature, that it became next to impossible to understand it 
thoroughly. It need excite no surprise, then, to learn that 
a bad feeling between working men and the upper classes 
became very strong in this season of privation. The indi- 
gence and sufferings of the operatives induced a suspicion 
in the minds of many of them, that their legislators, their 

94 


Margaret’s Debut as a Public Singer 

magistrates, their employers, and even the ministers of 
religion, were, in general, their oppressors and enemies ; and 
were in league for their prostration and enthralment. The 
most deplorable and enduring evil that arose out of the 
period of commercial depression to which I refer, was this 
feeling of alienation between the different classes of society. 
It is so impossible to describe, or even faintly to picture, the 
state of distress which prevailed in the town at that time, that 
I will not attempt it ; and yet I think again that surely, in a 
Christian land, it was not known even so feebly as words 
could tell it, or the more happy and fortunate would have 
thronged with their sympathy and their aid. In many 
instances the sufferers wept first, and then they cursed. 
Their vindictive feelings exhibited themselves in rabid 
politics. And when I hear, as I have heard, of the suffer- 
ings and privations of the poor, of provision shops where 
ha’porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even flour, were sold to 
accommodate the indigent, — of parents sitting in their clothes 
by the fireside during the whole night for seven weeks 
together, in order that their only bed and bedding might be 
reserved for the use of their large family, — of others sleeping 
upon the cold hearthstone for weeks in succession, without 
adequate means of providing themselves with food or fuel 
(and this in the depth of winter), — of others being com- 
pelled to fast for days together, uncheered by any hope of 
better fortune, living, moreover, or rather starving, in a 
crowded garret, or damp cellar, and gradually sinking under 
the pressure of want and despair into a premature grave; 
and when this has been confirmed by the evidence of their 
careworn looks, their excited feelings, and their desolate 
homes, — can I wonder that many of them, in such times of 
misery and destitution, spoke and acted with ferocious 
precipitation ? 

An idea was now springing up among the operatives, that 
originated with the Chartists, but which came at' last to be 
cherished as a darling child by many and many a one. They 
could not believe that Government knew of their misery: 

95 


Mary Barton 

they rather chose to think it possible that men could volun- 
tarily assume the ofi&ce of legislators for a nation who were 
ignorant of its real state ; as who should make domestic rules 
for the pretty behaviour of children without caring to know 
that those children had been kept for days without food. 
Besides, the starving multitudes had heard, that the very 
existence of their distress had been denied in Parliament ; 
and though they felt this strange and inexplicable, yet the 
idea that their misery had still to be revealed in all its depths, 
and that then some remedy would be found, soothed their 
aching hearts, and kept down their rising fury. 

So a petition was framed, and signed by thousands in the 
bright spring days of 1839, imploring Parliament to hear 
witnesses who could testify to the unparalleled destitution of 
the manufacturing districts. Nottingham, Sheffield, Glasgow, 
Manchester, and many other towns, were busy appointing 
delegates to convey this petition, who might speak, not 
merely of what they had seen, and had heard, but from what 
they had borne and suffered. Life-worn, gaunt, anxious, 
hunger- stamped men, were those delegates. 

One of them was John Barton. He would have been 
ashamed to own the flutter of spirits his appointment gave 
him. There was the childish delight of seeing London — that 
went a little way, and but a little way. There was the vain 
idea of speaking out his notions before so many grand folk — 
that went a little further ; and last, there was the really pure 
gladness of heart arising from the idea that he was one of 
those chosen to be instruments in making known the dis- 
tresses of the people, and consequently in procuring them 
some grand relief, by means of which they should never 
suffer want or care any more. He hoped largely, but vaguely, 
of the results of his expedition. An argosy of the precious 
hopes of many otherwise despairing creatures, was that 
petition to be heard concerning their sufferings. 

The night before the morning on which the Manchester 
delegates were to leave for London, Barton might be said 
to hold a levee, so many neighbours came dropping in. Job 

96 


Margaret’s Debut as a Public Singer 

Legh had early established himself and his pipe by John 
Barton’s fire, not saying much, but puffing away, and 
imagining himself of use in adjusting the smoothing-irons 
that hung before the fire, ready for Mary when she should 
want them. As for Mary, her employment was the same 
as that of Beau Tibbs’ wife, “ just washing her father’s two 
shirts,” in the pantry back-kitchen; for she was anxious 
about his appearance in London. (The coat had been re- 
deemed, though the silk handkerchief was forfeited.) The 
door stood open, as usual, between the house-place and back- 
kitchen, so she gave her greeting to their friends as they 
entered. 

“ So, John, yo’re bound for London, are yo ? ” said one. 

“ Ay, I suppose I mun go,” answered John, yielding to 
necessity as it were. 

“ Well, there’s many a thing I’d like yo to speak on to 
the Parliament people. Thou’lt not spare ’em, John, I hope. 
Tell ’em our minds ; how we’re thinking we’n been clemmed 
long enough, and we donnot see whatten good they’n been 
doing, if they can’t give us what we’re all crying for sin’ the 
day we were born.” 

“ Ay, ay ! I’ll tell ’em that, and much more to it, when it 
gets to my turn; but thou knows there’s many will have 
their word afore me.” 

“ Well, thou’lt speak at last. Bless thee, lad, do ask ’em 
to make th’ masters to break th’ machines. There’s never 
been good times sin’ spinning- jennies came up.” 

“ Machines is th’ ruin of poor folk,” chimed in several 
voices. 

“ For my part,” said a shivering, half-clad man, who 
crept near the fire, as if ague-stricken, “ I would like th6e 
to tell ’em to pass th’ Short-hours Bill. Flesh and blood 
get wearied wi’ so much work ; why should factory hands 
work so much longer nor other trades ? Just ask ’em that, 
Barton, will ye ? ” 

Barton was saved the necessity of answering, by the 
entrance of Mrs. Davenport, the poor widow he had been so 

97 H 


Mary Barton 

kind to ; she looked half-fed, and eager, but was decently 
clad. In her hand she brought a little newspaper parcel, 
which she took to Mary, who opened it, and then called out, 
dangling a shirt collar from her soapy fingers — 

“ See, father, what a dandy you’ll be in London ! Mrs. 
Davenport has brought you this ; made new cut, all after the 
fashion. Thank you for thinking on him.” 

“ Eh, Mary ! ” said Mrs. Davenport in a low voice, 
“ whatten’s all I can do, to what he’s done for me and mine ? 
But, Mary, sure I can help ye, for you’ll be busy wi’ this 
journey.” 

“ Just help me wring these out, and then I’ll take ’em to 
the mangle.” 

So Mrs. Davenport became a listener to the conversation ; 
and after a while joined in. 

“ I’m sure, John Barton, if yo are taking messages to the 
Parliament folk, yo’ll not object to telling ’em what a sore 
trial it is, this law o’ theirs, keeping childer fra’ factory work, 
whether they be weakly or strong. There’s our Ben ; why, 
porridge seems to go no way wi’ him, he eats so much ; and 
I ban gotten no money to send him t’ school, as I would 
like; and there he is, rampaging about the streets a’ day, 
getting hungrier and hungrier, and picking up a’ manner o’ 
bad ways ; and th’ inspector won’t let him in to work in th’ 
factory, because he’s not right age; though he’s twice as 
strong as Sankey’s little ritling * of a lad, as works till he 
cries for his legs aching so, though he is right age, and 
better.” 

“I’ve one plan I wish to tell John Barton,” said a 
pompous, careful- speaking man, “ and I should like him for 
to lay it afore the Honourable House. My mother corned 
out o’ Oxfordshire, and were under-laundry-maid in Sir 
Francis Dash wood’s family ; and when we were little ones, 
she’d tell us stories of their grandeur: and one thing she 
named were, that Sir Francis wore two shirts a day. Now 

* “Ritling,” probably a corruption of “ ricketling,” a child that 
suffers from the rickets — a weakling. 

98 


Margaret’s Debut as a Public Singer 

he were all as one as a Parliament man ; and many on ’em, 
I ban no doubt, are like extravagant. Just tell ’em, John, 
do, that they’d be doing the Lancashire weavers a great 
kindness, if they’d ha’ their shirts a’ made o’ calico ; ’twould 
make trade brisk, that would, wi’ the power o’ shirts they 
wear.” 

Job Legh now put in his word. Taking the pipe out of 
his mouth, and addressing the last speaker, he said — 

“ I’ll tell ye what, Bill, and no offence, mind ye ; there’s 
but hundreds of them Parliament folk as wear so many 
shirts to their back; but there’s thousands and thousands 
o’ poor weavers as ban only gotten one shirt i’ the world ; 
ay, and don’t know where t’ get another when that rag’s 
done, though they’re turning out miles o’ calico every day ; 
and many a mile o’t is lying in warehouses, stopping up 
trade for want o’ purchasers. Yo take my advice, John 
Barton, and ask Parliament to set trade free, so as workmen 
can earn a decent wage, and buy their two, ay and three, 
shirts a year ; that would make weaving brisk.” 

He put his pipe in his mouth again, and redoubled his 
puffing, to make up for lost time. 

“ I’m afeard, neighbours,” said John Barton, “ I’ve not 
much chance o’ telling ’em all yo say ; what I think on, is 
just speaking out about the distress that they say is nought. 
When they hear o’ children bom on wet flags, without a rag 
t’ cover ’em or a bit o’ food for th’ mother ; when they hear 
of folk lying down to die i’ th’ streets, or hiding their want i’ 
some hole o’ a cellar till death come to set ’em free ; and 
when they hear o’ all this plague, pestilence, and famine, 
they’ll surely do somewhat wiser for us than we can guess 
at now. Howe’er, I ban no objection, if so be there’s an 
opening, to speak up for what yo say ; anyhow. I’ll do my 
best, and yo see now, if better times don’t come after Parlia- 
ment knows all.” 

Some shook their heads, but more looked cheery : and 
then one by one dropped off, leaving John and his daughter 
alone. 


99 


Mary Barton 

“Didst thou mark how poorly Jane Wilson looked?” 
asked he, as they wound up their hard day’s work by a 
supper eaten over the fire, which glowed and glimmered 
through the room, and formed their only light. 

“ No, I can’t say as I did. But she’s never rightly held 
up her head since the twins died ; and all along she has 
never been a strong woman.” 

“ Never sin’ her accident. Afore that I mind her looking 
as fresh and likely a girl as e’er a one in Manchester.” 

“ What accident father? ” 

“ She cotched * her side again a wheel. It were afore 
wheels were boxed up. It were just when she were to have 
been married, and many a one thought George would ha’ 
been off his bargain ; but I knew he wern’t the chap for that 
trick. Pretty near the first place she went to when she were 
able to go about again, was th’ Oud Church ; poor wench, 
all pale and limping she went up the aisle, George holding 
her up as tender as a mother, ^and walking as slow as e’er 
he could, not to hurry her, though there were plenty enow 
of rude lads to cast their jests at him and her. Her face 
were white like a sheet when she came in church, but afore 
she got to th’ altar she were all one flush. But for a’ that 
it’s been a happy marriage, and George has stuck by me 
through life like a brother. He’ll never hold up his head 
again if he loses Jane. I didn’t like her looks to-night.” 

And so he went to bed, the fear of forthcoming sorrow to 
his friend mingling with his thoughts of to-morrow, and his 
hopes for the future. Mary watched him set off, with her 
hands over her eyes to shade them from the bright slanting 
rays of the morning sun, and then she turned into the house 
to arrange its disorder before going to her work. She 
wondered if she should like or dislike the evening and morn- 
ing solitude; for several hours when the clock struck she 
thought of her father, and wondered where he was ; she 
made good resolutions according to her lights ; and by-and- 
by came the distractions and events of the broad full day to 
* “ Cotched,” caught. 
lOO 


Margaret’s Debut as a Public Singer 

occupy her with the present, and to deaden the memory of 
the absent. 

One of Mary’s resolutions was, that she would not be 
persuaded or induced to see Mr. Harry Carson during her 
father’s absence. There was something crooked in her 
conscience after all; for this very resolution seemed an 
acknowledgment that it was wrong to meet him at any 
time ; and yet she had brought herself to think her conduct 
quite innocent and proper, for although unknown to her 
father, and certain, even did he know it, to fail of obtaining 
his sanction, she esteemed her love-meeting with Mr. Carson 
as sure to end in her father’s good and happiness. But now 
that he was away, she would do nothing that he would 
disapprove of ; no, not even though it was for his own good 
in the end. 

Now, amongst Miss Simmonds’ young ladies was one 
who had been from the beginning a confidante in Mary’s 
love affair, made so by Mr. Carson himself. He had felt the 
necessity of some third person to carry letters and messages, 
and to plead his cause when he was absent. In a girl 
named Sally Leadbitter he had found a willing advocate. She 
would have been willing to have embarked in a love affair 
herself (especially a clandestine one), for the mere excite- 
ment of the thing; hut her willingness was strengthened 
by sundry half-sovereigns, which from time to time Mr. 
Carson bestowed upon her. 

Sally Leadbitter was vulgar-minded to the last degree ; 
never easy unless her talk was of love and lovers; in her 
eyes it was an honour to have had a long list of wooers. So 
constituted, it was a pity that Sally herself was hut a plain, 
red-haired, freckled girl ; never likely, one would have 
thought, to become a heroine on her own account. But 
what she lacked in beauty she tried to make up for by a kind 
of witty boldness, which gave her what her betters would 
have called piquancy. Considerations of modesty or pro- 
priety never checked her utterance of a good thing. She 
had just talent enough to corrupt others. Her very good 

lOI 


Mary Barton 

nature was an evil influence. They could not hate one who 
was so kind ; they could not avoid one who was so willing 
to shield them from scrapes by any exertion of her own ; 
whose ready fingers would at any time make up for their 
deficiencies, and whose still more convenient tongue would 
at any time invent for them. The Jews, or Mohammedans 
(I forget which), believe that there is one little bone of our 
body, — one of the vertebrae, if I remember rightly, — which 
will never decay and turn to dust, but will lie incorrupt and 
indestructible in the ground until the Last Day : this is the 
Seed of the Soul. The most depraved have also their Seed 
of the Holiness that shall one day overcome their evil ; their 
one good quality, lurking hidden, but safe, among all the 
corrupt and bad. 

Sally’s seed of the future soul was her love for her 
mother, an aged bedridden woman. For her she had self- 
denial ; for her, her good-nature rose into tenderness ; to 
cheer her lonely bed, her spirits, in the evenings, when her 
body was often woefully tired, never flagged, but were ready 
to recount the events of the day, to turn them into ridicule, 
and to mimic, with admirable fidelity, any person gifted with 
an absurdity who had fallen under her keen eye. But the 
mother was lightly principled like Sally herself ; nor was 
there need to conceal from her the reason why Mr. Carson 
gave her so much money. She chuckled with pleasure, and 
only hoped that the wooing would be long a-doing. 

Still neither she nor her daughter, nor Harry Carson liked 
this resolution of Mary, not to see him during her father’s 
absence. 

One evening (and the early summer evenings were long 
and bright now), Sally met Mr. Carson by appointment, to 
be charged with a letter for Mary, imploring her to see him, 
which Sally was to back with all her powers of persuasion. 
After parting from him she determined, as it was not so very 
late, to go at once to Mary’s, and deliver the message and 
^tter. 

She found Mary in great sorrow. She had just heard of 
102 


Margaret’s Debut as a Public Singer 

George Wilson’s sudden death : her old friend, her father’s 
friend, Jem’s father — all his claims came rushing upon her. 
Though not guarded from unnecessary sight or sound of 
death, as the children of the rich are, yet it had so often 
been brought home to her this last three or four months. 
It was so terrible thus to see friend after friend depart. Her 
father, too, who had dreaded Jane Wilson’s death the even- 
ing before he set off. And she, the weakly, was left behind, 
while the strong man was taken. At any rate the sorrow 
her father had so feared for him was spared. Such were the 
thoughts which came over her. 

She could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if comfort 
were in her power to give ! for she had resolved to avoid 
Jem ; and she felt that this of all others was not the occasion 
on which she could keep up a studiously cold manner. 

And in this shock of grief, Sally Leadbitfcer was the last 
person she wished to see. However, she rose to welcome 
her, betraying her tear- swollen face. 

“Well, I shall tell Mr. Carson to-morrow how you’re 
fretting for him ; it’s no more nor he’s doing for you, I can 
tell you.” 

“ For him, indeed ! ” said Mary, with a toss of her pretty 
head. 

“ Ay, miss, for him ! You’ve been sighing as if your 
heart would break now for several days, over your work; 
now, arn’t you a little goose not to go and see one who I am 
sure loves you as his life, and whom you love ; ‘ How much, 
Mary ? ’ ‘ This much,’ as the children say ” (opening her 

arms very wide). 

“ Nonsense,” said Mary, pouting ; “ I often think I don’t 
love him at all.” 

“ And I’m to tell him that, am I, next time I see him ? ” 
asked Sally. 

“ If you like,” replied Mary. “ I’m sure I don’t care for 
that or anything else now ; ” weeping afresh. 

But Sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news. 
She saw she had gone on the wrong tack, and that Mary’s 

103 


Mary Barton 

heart was too full to value either message or letter as she 
ought. So she wisely paused in their delivery and said, in 
a more sympathetic tone than she had hitherto used — 

“ Do tell me, Mary, what’s fretting you so ? You know 
I never could abide to see you cry.” 

“ George Wilson’s dropped down dead this afternoon,” 
said Mary, fixing her eyes for one minute on Sally, and the 
next hiding her face in her apron as she sobbed anew. 

“ Dear, dear ! All flesh is grass ; here to-day and gone 
to-morrow, as the Bible says. Still he was an old man, and 
not good for much ; there’s better folk than him left behind. 
Is th’ canting old maid as was his sister alive yet ? ” 

“ I don’t know who you mean,” said Mary sharply ; for 
she did know, and did not like to have her dear, simple Alice 
so spoken of. 

“ Come, Mary, don’t be so innocent. Is Miss Alice 
Wilson alive, then ; will that please you ? I haven’t seen 
her hereabouts lately.” 

“No, she’s left living here. When the twins died, she 
thought she could, maybe, be of use to her sister, who was 
sadly cast down, and Alice thought she could cheer her up ; 
at any rate she could listen to her when her heart grew 
overburdened; so she gave up her cellar and went to live 
with them.” 

“ Well, good go with her. I’d no fancy for her, and I’d 
no fancy for her making my pretty Mary into a Methodee.” 

“ She wasn’t a Methodee ; she was Church o’ England.” 

“Well, well, Mary, you’re very particular. You know 
what I meant. Look, who is this letter from ? ” holding up 
Henry Carson’s letter. 

“ I don’t know, and don’t care,” said Mary, turning very 

red. 

“ My eye ! as if I didn’t know you did know and did care.” 

“ Well, give it me,” said Mary impatiently, and anxious 
in her present mood for her visitor’s departure. 

Sally relinquished it unwillingly. She had, however, the 
pleasure of seeing Mary dimple and blush as she read the 

104 


Margaret’s Debut as a Public Singer 

letter, which seemed to say the writer was not indifferent 
to her. 

“ You must tell him I can’t come,” said Mary, raising 
her eyes at last. “ I have said I won’t meet him while father 
is away, and I won’t.” 

“ But, Mary, he does so look for you. You’d be quite 
sorry for him, he’s so put out about not seeing you. Besides, 
you go when your father’s at home, without letting on * to 
him, and what harm would there be in going now ? ” 

“ Well, Sally, you know my answer, I won’t ; and I won’t.” 

“ I’ll tell him to come and see you himself some evening, 
instead o’ sending me ; he’d maybe find you not so hard to 
deal with.” 

Mary flashed up. 

“ If he dares to come here while father’s away. I’ll call 
the neighbours in to turn him out, so don’t be putting him 
up to that.” 

“ Mercy on us ! one would think you were the first girl 
that ever had a lover ; have you never heard what other girls 
do and think no shame of ? ” 

“ Hush, Sally ! that’s Margaret Jennings at the door.” 

And in an instant Margaret was in the room. Mary had 
begged Job Legh to let her come and sleep with her. In the 
uncertain firelight you could not help noticing that she had 
the groping walk of a blind person. 

“ Well, I must go, Mary,” said Sally. “ And that’s your 
last word ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ; good-night.” She shut the door gladly on 
her unwelcome visitor — unwelcome at that time at least. 

“ O Margaret, have ye heard this sad news about George 
Wilson ? ” 

“ Yes, that I have. Poor creatures, they’ve been sore 
tried lately. Not that I think sudden death so bad a thing ; 
it’s easy, and there’s no terrors for him as dies. For them 
as survives it’s very hard. Poor George! he were such a 
hearty-looking man.” 

* “ Letting on,” informing. 

105 


Mary Barton 

“ Margaret,” said Mary, who had been closely observing 
her friend, “ thou’rt very blind to-night, arn’t thou ? Is it 
wi’ crying? Your eyes are so swollen and red.” 

“ Yes, dear ! but not crying for sorrow. Han ye heard 
where I was last night ? ” 

“ No ; where ? ” 

“ Look here.” She held up a bright golden sovereign. 
Mary opened her large grey eyes with astonishment. 

“ I’ll tell you all and how about it. You see there’s a 
gentleman lecturing on music at th’ Mechanics’, and he 
wants folk to sing his songs. Well, last night the counter 
got a sore throat and couldn’t make a note. So they sent 
for me. Jacob Butterworth had said a good word for me, 
and they asked me would I sing? You may think I was 
frightened, but I thought. Now or never, and said I’d do my 
best. So I tried o’er the songs wi’ th’ lecturer, and then th’ 
managers told me I were to make myself decent and be 
there by seven.” 

“ And what did you put on ? ” asked Mary. “ Oh, why 
didn’t you come in for my pretty pink gingham ? ” 

“ I did think on’t ; but you had na come home then. 
No ! I put on my merino, as was turned last winter, and my 
white shawl, and did my hair pretty tidy ; it did well enough. 
Well, but as I was saying, I went at seven. I couldn’t see 
to read my music, but I took th’ paper in wi’ me, to ha’ 
something to do wi’ my fingers. Th’ folks’ heads danced, as 
I stood as right afore ’em all as if I’d been going to play at 
ball wi’ ’em. You may guess I felt squeamish, but mine 
weren’t the first song, and th’ music sounded like a friend’s 
voice telling me to take courage. So, to make a long story 
short, when it were all o’er th’ lecturer thanked me, and th’ 
managers said as how there never was a new singer so 
applauded (for they’d clapped and stamped after I’d done, till 
I began to wonder how many pair o’ shoes they’d get through 
a week at that rate, let alone their hands). So I’m to sing again 
o’ Thursday ; and I got a sovereign last night, and am to have 
half-a-sovereign every night th’ lecturer is at th’ Mechanics’.” 


Margaret’s Debut as a Public Singer 

“ Well, Margaret, I’m right glad to hear it.” 

“ And I don’t think you’ve heard the best bit yet. Now 
that a way seemed open to me, of not being a burden to any 
one, though it did please God to make me blind, I thought 
I’d tell grandfather. I only toll’d him about the singing and 
the sovereign last night, for I thought I’d not send him to 
bed wi’ a heavy heart ; but this morning I tolled him all.” 

“ And how did he take it ? ” 

“ He’s not a man of many words ; and it took him by 
surprise like.” 

“I wonder at that; I’ve noticed it in your ways ever 
since you tolled me.” 

“ Ay, that’s it ! If I’d not tolled you, and you’d seen me 
every day, you’d not ha’ noticed the little mite o’ difference 
fra’ day to day.” 

“ Well, but what did your grandfather say ? ” 

“ Why, Mary,” said Margaret, half smiling, “ I’m a bit 
loth to tell yo, for unless yo knew grandfather’s ways like 
me, yo’d think it strange. He was taken by surprise, and 
he said : ‘ Damn yo ! ’ Then he began looking at his book 
as it were, and were very quiet, while I tolled him all about 
it ; how I’d feared, and how downcast I’d been ; and how I 
were now reconciled to it, if it were th’ Lord’s will ; and how 
I hoped to earn money by singing ; and while I were talking, 
I saw great big tears come dropping on th’ book; but in 
course I never let on that I saw ’em. Dear grandfather! 
and all day long he’s been quietly moving things out o’ my 
way, as he thought might trip me up, and putting things in 
my way as he thought I might want ; never knowing I saw 
and felt what he were doing ; for, yo see, he thinks I’m out 
and out blind, I guess — as I shall be soon.” 

Margaret sighed in spite of her cheerful and relieved tone. 

Though Mary caught the sigh, she felt it was better 
to let it pass without notice, and began, with the tact which 
true sympathy rarely fails to supply, to ask a variety of 
questions respecting her friend’s musical debut, which tended 
to bring out more distinctly how successful it had been. 

107 


Mary Barton 

“Why, Margaret,” at length she exclaimed, “thou’lt 
become as famous, maybe, as that grand lady fra’ London, 
as we see’d one night driving up to the concert-room door in 
her carriage.” 

“ It looks very like it,” said Margaret, with a smile. 
“ And be sure, Mary, I’ll not forget to give thee a lift now 
and then when that comes about. Nay, who knows, if 
thou’rt a good girl, but mayhappen I may make thee my 
lady’s maid ! Wouldn’t that be nice ? So I e’en sing to 
mysel th’ beginning o’ one o’ my songs — 

‘ An’ ye shall walk in silk attire. 

An’ siller hae to spare.’ ” 

“ Nay, don’t stop ; or else give me something rather 
more new, for somehow I never quite liked that part about 
thinking o’ Donald mair.” 

“ Well, though I’m a bit tired I don’t care if I do. Before 
I come, I were practising well-nigh upon two hours this one 
which I’m to sing o’ Thursday. The lecturer said he were 
sure it would just suit me, and I should do justice to it ; and 
I should be right sorry to disappoint him, he were so nice 
and encouraging like to me. Eh ! Mary, what a pity there 
isn’t more o’ that way, and less scolding and rating i’ th’ 
world ! It would go a vast deal further. Beside, some o’ th’ 
singers said, they were a’most certain that it were a song o’ 
his own, because he were so fidgety and particular about it, 
and so anxious I should give it th’ proper expression. And 
that makes me care still more. Th’ first verse, he said, were 
to be sung ‘ tenderly, but joyously ! ’ I’m afraid I don’t 
quite hit that, but I’ll try. 

‘ What a single word can do ! 

Thrilling all the heart-strings through. 

Calling forth fond memories, 

Raining round hope’s melodies. 

Steeping all in one bright hue — 

What a single word can do 1 ’ 
io8 


Margaret’s Debut as a Public Sing 

Now it falls into th’ minor key, and must be very sad-like. 
I feel as if I could do that better than t’other. 

‘ What a single word can do I 
Making life seem all untrue. 

Driving joy and hope away, 

Leaving not one cheering ray. 

Blighting every flower that grew — 

What a single word can do 1’ ” 

Margaret certainly made the most of this little song. As 
a factory worker, listening outside, observed, “ She spun it 
reet* fine ! ” And if she only sang it at the Mechanics’ with 
half the feeling she put into it that night, the lecturer must 
have been hard to please, if he did not admit that his 
expectations were more than fulfilled. 

When it was ended, Mary’s looks told more than words 
could have done what she thought of it ; and partly to keep 
in a tear which would fain have rolled out, she brightened 
into a laugh, and said, “ For certain th’ carriage is coming. 
So let us go and dream on it.” 


CHAPTER IX 

barton’s LONDON EXPERIENCES 

“ A life of self-indulgence is for us, 

A life of self-denial is for them ; 

For us the streets, broad-built and populous. 

For them unhealthy corners, garrets dim. 

And cellars where the water-rat may swim ! 

For us green paths refreshed by frequent rain, 

For them dark alleys where the dust lies grim I 
Not doomed by us to this appointed pain — 

God made us rich and poor— of what do these complain ? ” 
Mrs. Norton’s “ Child of the Islands.” 

The next evening it was a warm, pattering, incessant rain — : 
just the rain to waken up the flowers. But in Manchester, 

* “ Reet,” right ; often used for “ very.” 

109 


Mary Barton 

where alas ! there are no flowers, the rain had only a dis- 
heartening and gloomy eff’ect ; the streets were wet and dirty, 
the drippings from the houses were wet and dirty, and the 
people were wet and dirty. Indeed, most kept within doors ; 
and there was an unusual silence of footsteps in the little 
paved courts. 

Mary had to change her clothes after her walk home; 
and had hardly settled herself before she heard some one 
fumbling at the door. The noise continued long enough to 
allow her to get up, and go and open it. There stood — could 
it be ? yes it was, her father ! 

Drenched and wayworn, there he stood! He came in 
with no word to Mary in return for her cheery and astonished 
greeting. He sat down by the fire in his wet things, un- 
heeding. But Mary would not let him so rest. She ran up 
and brought down his working-day clothes, and went into 
the pantry to rummage up their little bit of provision while 
he changed by the fire, talking all the while as gaily as 
she could, though her father’s depression hung like lead on 
her heart. 

For Mary, in her seclusion at Miss Simmonds’, — where 
the chief talk was of fashions, and dress, and parties to be 
given, for which such and such gowns would be wanted, 
varied with a shght-whispered interlude occasionally about 
love and lovers, — had not heard the political news of the day; 
that Parliament had refused to hsten to the working-men, 
when they petitioned, with all the force of their rough, un- 
tutored words, to be heard concerning the distress which was 
riding, like the Conqueror on his Pale Horse, among the 
people ; which was crushing their lives out of them, and 
stamping woe-marks over the land. 

When he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat for some 
time in silence; for Mary wished him to tell her what 
oppressed him so, yet durst not ask. In this she was wise ; 
for when we are heavy-laden in our hearts it falls in better 
with our humour to reveal our case in our own way, and our 
own time. 


no 


Barton’s London Experiences 

Mary sat on a stool at her father’s feet in old childish 
guise, and stole her hand into his, while his sadness infected 
her, and she “ caught the trick of grief, and sighed,” she 
knew not why. 

“ Mary, we mun speak to our God to hear us, for man 
will not hearken ; no, not now, when we weep tears o’ 
blood.” 

In an instant Mary understood the fact, if not the details, 
that so weighed down her father’s heart. She pressed his 
hand with silent sympathy. She did not know what to say, 
and was so afraid of speaking wrongly, that she was silent. 
But when his attitude had remained unchanged for more 
than half-an-hour, his eyes gazing vacantly and fixedly at 
the fire, no sound but now and then a deep-drawn sigh to 
break the weary ticking of the clock, and the drip-drop from 
the roof without, Mary could bear it no longer. Anything 
to rouse her father. Even bad news. 

“ Father, do you know George Wilson’s dead ? ” (Her 
hand was suddenly and almost violently compressed.) “ He 
dropped down dead in Oxford Eoad yester* morning. It’s 
very sad, isn’t it, father? ” 

Her tears were ready to flow as she looked up in her 
father’s face for sympathy. Still the same fixed look of 
despair, not varied by grief for the dead. 

“ Best for him to die,” he said, in a low voice. 

This was unbearable. Mary got up under pretence of 
going to tell Margaret that she need not come to sleep with 
her to-night, but really to ask Job Legh to come and cheer 
her father. 

She stopped outside the door. Margaret was practising 
her singing, and through the still night air her voice rang 
out, like that of an angel — 

“ Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God.” 

The old Hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on Mary’s 
heart. She could not interrupt. She stood listening and 
“ comforted,” till the little buzz of conversation again began, 
and then entered and told her errand. 


Ill 


Mary Barton 

Both grandfather and grand- daughter rose instantly to 
fulfil her request. 

“ He’s just tired out, Mary,” said old Job. “ He’ll be a 
different man to-morrow.” 

There is no describing the looks and tones that have 
power over an aching, heavy-laden heart ; but in an hour or 
so John Barton was talking away as freely as ever, though 
all his talk ran, as was natural, on the disappointment of his 
fond hope, of the forlorn hope of many. 

“ Ay, London’s a fine place,” said he, “ and finer folk live 
in it than I ever thought on, or ever heerd tell on except in 
th’ story-books. They are having their good things now, 
that afterwards they may be tormented.” 

Still at the old parable of Dives and Lazarus ! Does it 
haunt the minds of the rich as it does those of the poor ? 

“ Do tell us all about London, dear father,” asked Mary, 
who was sitting at her old post by her father’s knee. 

“ How can I tell yo a’ about it, when I never see’d one- 
tenth of it. It’s as big as six Manchesters, they telled me. 
One-sixth may be made up o’ grand palaces, and three- 
sixths o’ middling kind, and th’ rest o’ holes o’ iniquity and 
filth, such as Manchester knows nought on, I’m glad 
to say.” 

“ Well, father, but did you see the Queen ? ” 

“ I believe I didn’t, though one day I thought I’d seen 
her many a time. You see,” said he, turning to Job Legh, 
“ there were a day appointed for us to go to Parliament 
House. We were most on us biding at a public-house in 
Holborn, where they did very well for us. Th’ morning of 
taking our petition we had such a spread for breakfast as th’ 
Queen hersel might ha’ sitten down to. I suppose they 
thought we wanted putting in heart. There were mutton 
kidneys, and sausages, and broiled ham, and fried beef and 
onions ; more like a dinner nor a breakfast. Many on our 
chaps though, I could see, could eat but little. Th’ food 
stuck in their throats when they thought o’ them at home, 
wives and little ones, as had, maybe at that very time, nought 

I 12 


Barton’s London Experiences 

to eat. Well, after breakfast, we were all set to walk in 
procession, and a time it took to put us in order, two and 
two, and the petition, as was yards long, carried by tb’ fore- 
most pairs. The men looked grave enough, yo may be sure ; 
and such a set of thin, wan, wretched-looking chaps as they 
were ! ” 

“ Yourself is none to boast on.” 

“ Ay, but I were fat and rosy to many a one. Well, we 
walked on and on through many a street, much the same as 
Deansgate. We had to walk slowly, slowly, for th’ carriages 
an’ cabs as thronged th’ streets. I thought by-and-by we 
should maybe get clear on ’em, but as the streets grew wider 
they grew worse, and at last we were fairly blocked up at 
Oxford Street. We getten across at after a while though, 
and my eyes ! the grand streets we were in then ! They’re 
sadly puzzled how to build houses though in London ; there’d 
be an opening for a good steady master builder there, as 
know’d his business. For yo see the houses are many on 
’em built without any proper shape for a body to live in ; 
some on ’em they’ve after thought would fall down, so 
they’ve stuck great ugly pillars out before ’em. And some 
on ’em (we thought they must be th’ tailors’ sign) had getten 
stone men and women as wanted clothes stuck on ’em. I 
were like a child, I forgot a’ my errand in looking about me. 
By this it were dinner-time, or better, as we could tell by 
the sun, right above our heads, and we were dusty and tired, 
going a step now and a step then. Well, at last we getten 
into a street grander nor all, leading to th’ Queen’s palace, 
and there it were I thought I saw th’ Queen. Yo’ve seen th’ 
hearses wi’ white plumes. Job ? ” 

Job assented. 

“ Well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in 
London. Well nigh every lady we saw in a carriage had 
hired one o’ them plumes for the day, and had it niddle 
noddling on her head. It were th’ Queen’s drawing-room, 
they said, and th’ carriages went bowling along toward her 
house, some wi’ dressed-up gentlemen like circus folk in ’em, 

113 I 


Mary Barton 

and rucks * o’ ladies in others. Carriages themselves were 
great shakes too. Some o’ th’ gentlemen as couldn’t get 
inside hung on behind, wi’ nosegays to smell at, and sticks 
to keep off folk as might splash their silk stockings. I 
wonder why they didn’t hire a cab rather than hang on hke 
a whip-behind boy ; but I suppose they wished to keep wi’ 
their wives. Darby and Joan like. Coachmen were little 
squat men, wi’ wigs like th’ oud-fashioned parsons’. Well, 
we could na get on for these carriages, though we waited 
and waited. Th’ horses were too fat to move quick; they 
never known want o’ food, one might tell by their sleek 
coats; and police pushed us back when we tried to cross. 
One or two of ’em struck wi’ their sticks, and coachmen 
laughed, and some officers as stood nigh put their spy-glasses 
in their eye, and left ’em sticking there like mountebanks. 
One o’ th’ police struck me. ‘ Whatten business have you 
to do that ? ’ said I. 

“ ‘ You’re frightening them horses,’ says he, in his mincing 
way (for Londoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can’t say 
their a’s and i’s properly), ‘and it’s our business to keep 
you from molesting the ladies and gentlemen going to her 
Majesty’s drawing-room.’ 

“ And why are we to be molested ? ” asked I, “ going 
decently about our business, which is life and death to us, 
and many a little one clemming at home in Lancashire? 
Which business is of most consequence i’ the sight o’ God, 
think yo, our’n or them grand ladies and gentlemen as yo 
think so much on ? 

“ But I might as well ha’ held my peace, for he only 
laughed.” 

John ceased. After waiting a little, to see if he would 
go on himself, Job said — 

“ Well, but that’s not a’ your story, man. Tell us what 
happened when you got to th’ Parliament House.” 

After a little pause, John answered — 

“ If you please, neighbour, I’d rather say nought about 

• “ Rucks,” a great quantity. “ Rycian,” to collect. 

I14 


Barton’s London Experiences 

that. It’s not to be forgotten, or forgiven either, by me or 
many another ; but I canna tell of our down-casting just as 
a piece of London news. As long as I live, our rejection of 
that day will abide in my heart ; and as long as I live I shall 
curse them as so cruelly refused to hear us ; but I’ll not speab 
of it no * more,” 

So, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few 
minutes. 

Old Job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all 
the good they had done in dispelling John Barton’s gloom 
was lost. So after a while he thought of a subject, neither 
sufficiently dissonant from the last to jar on the full heart, 
nor too much the same to cherish the continuance of the 
gloomy train of thought. 

“ Did you ever hear tell,” said he to Mary, “ that I were 
in London once ? ” 

“ No ! ” said she with surprise, and looking at Job with 
increased respect. 

“ Ay, but I were though, and Peg there too, though she 
minds nought about it, poor wench ! You must know I had 
but one child, and she were Margaret’s mother. I loved her 
above a bit, and one day when she came (standing behind 
me for that I should not see her blushes, and stroking my 
cheeks in her own coaxing way), and told me she and Prank 
Jennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so 
happy if they were married, I could not find in my heart t’ 
say her nay, though I went sick at the thought of losing her 
away from my home. However, she was my only child, 
and I never said nought of what I felt, for fear o’ grieving 
her young heart. But I tried to think o’ the time when I’d 
been young mysel, and had loved her blessed mother, and 
how we’d left father and mother, and gone out into th’ world 
together, and I’m now right thankful I held my peace, and 

♦ A similar use of a double negative is frequent in Chaucer ; as in 
the “ Miller’s Tale ; ” 

“ That of no wife toke he non offering 
For curtesie, he sayd, he n’old non.” 

H5 


Mary Bartoii 

didna fret her wi’ telling her how sore I was at parting wi’ 
her that were the light o’ my eyes.” 

“ But,” said Mary, “ you said the young man were a 
neighbour.” 

“ Ay, so he were, and his father afore him. But work 
were rather slack in Manchester, and Frank’s uncle sent him 
word o’ London work and London wages, so he were to go 
there, and it were there Margaret was to follow him. Well, 
my heart aches yet at thought of those days. She so happy, 
and he so happy; only the poor father as fretted sadly 
behind their backs. They were married and stayed some 
days wi’ me afore setting off; and I’ve often thought sin’, 
Margaret’s heart failed her many a time those few days, and 
she would fain ha’ spoken ; but I knew fra’ mysel it were 
better to keep it pent up, and I never let on what I were 
feeling; I knew what she meant when she came kissing, 
and holding my hand, and all her old childish ways o’ loving 
me. Well, they went at last. You know them two letters, 
Margaret?” 

‘ “ Yes, sure,” replied his grand-daughter. 

“ Well, them two were the only letters I ever had fra’ 
her, poor lass. She said in them she were very happy, and 
I believe she were. And Frank’s family heard he were in 
good work. In one o’ her letters, poor thing, she ends wi’ 
saying, ‘ Farewell, Grandad ! ’ wi’ a line drawn under grandad, 
and fra’ that an’ other hints I knew she were in th’ family 
way ; and I said nought, but I screwed up a little money, 
thinking come Whitsuntide I’d take a holiday and go and 
see her an’ th’ little one. But one day towards Whitsuntide, 
corned Jennings wi’ a grave face, and says he, ‘ I hear our 
Frank and your Margaret’s both gotten the fever.’ You 
might ha’ knocked me down wi’ a straw, for it seemed as if 
God told me what th’ upshot would be. Old Jennings had 
gotten a letter, you see, fra’ the landlady they lodged wi ; 
a well-penned letter, asking if they’d no friends to come and 
nurse them. She’d caught it first, and Frank, who was as 
tender o’er her as her own mother could ha’ been, had 

ii6 


Barton’s London Experiences 

nursed her till he’d caught it himsel ; and she expecting hei 
down-lying * every day. Well, t’ make a long story short, 
old Jennings ahd I went up by that night’s coach. So you 
see, Mary, that was the way I got to London.” 

“ But how was your daughter when you got there ? ” 
asked Mary anxiously. 

“ She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank. I 
guessed as much when I see’d th’ landlady’s face, all swelled 
wi’ crying, when she opened th’ door to us. We said, ‘ Where 
are they ? ’ and I knew they were dead, fra’ her look ; but 
J ennings didn’t, as I take it ; for when she showed us into a 
room wi’ a white sheet on th’ bed, and underneath it, plain 
to be seen, two still figures, he screeched out as if he’d been 
a woman. 

“ Yet he’d other children and I’d none. There lay my 
darling, my only one. She were dead, and there were no 
one to love me, no, not one. I disremember f rightly what 
I did ; but I know I were very quiet, while my heart were 
crushed within me. 

“ Jennings could na’ stand being in the room at all, so 
the landlady took him down, and I were glad to be alone. 
It grew dark while I sat there ; and at last th’ landlady came 
up again, and said, ‘ Come here.’ So I got up, and walked 
into the light, but I had to hold by th’ stair-rails, I were so 
weak and dizzy. She led me into a room, where Jennings 
lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi’ his pocket-handkerchief over 
his head for a nightcap. She said he’d cried himself fairly 
off to sleep. There were tea on th’ table all ready ; for she 
were a kind-hearted body. But she still said, ‘ Come here,’ 
and took hold o’ my arm. So I went round the table, and 
there were a clothes-basket by th’ fire, wi’ a shawl put o’er 
it. ‘ Lift that up,’ says she, and I did ; and there lay a little 
wee babby fast asleep. My heart gave a leap, and th’ tears 
corned rushing into my eyes first time that day. ‘Is it 
hers?’ said I, though I knew it were. ‘Yes,’ said she. 
‘ She were getting a bit better o’ the fever, and th’ babby 

♦ “ Down-lying,” lying in. f “ Disremember,” forget. 

I17 


Mary Barton 

were born ; and then the poor young man took worse and 
died, and she were not many hours behind.’ 

“ Little mite of a thing ! and yet it seemed her angel 
come hack to comfort me. I were quite jealous o’ Jennings, 
whenever he went near the babby. I thought it were more 
my flesh and blood than his’n, and yet I were afraid he 
would claim it. However, that were far enough fra’ his 
thoughts ; he’d plenty other childer, and, as I found out 
after, he’d all along been wishing me to take it. Well, we 
buried Margaret and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely 
churchyard in London. I were loath to leave them there, 
as I thought, when they rose again, they’d feel so strange at 
first away fra’ Manchester, and all old friends ; but it could 
na be helped. Well, God watches o’er their graves there 
as well as here. That funeral cost a mint o’ money, but 
Jennings and I wished to do th’ thing decent. Then we’d 
the stout little babby to bring home. We’d not overmuch 
money left ; but it were fine weather, and we thought we’d 
take th’ coach to Brummagem, and walk on. It were a 
bright May morning when I last saw London town, looking 
back from a big hill a mile or two off. And in that big mass 
o’ a place I were leaving my blessed child asleep — in her last 
sleep. Well, God’s will be done ! She’s gotten to heaven 
afore me ; but I shall get there at last, please God, though 
it’s a long while first. 

“ The babby had been fed afore we set out, and th’ 
coach moving kept it asleep, bless its little heart ! But 
when th’ coach stopped for dinner it were awake, and crying 
for its pobbies.* So we asked for some bread and milk, and 
Jennings took it first for to feed it ; but it made its mouth 
like a square, and let it run out at each o’ the four corners. 
‘Shake it, Jennings,’ says I; ‘that’s the way they make 
water run through a funnel, when it’s o’er full ; and a child’s 
mouth is broad end o’ th’ funnel, and th’ gullet the narrow 
one.’ So he shook it, but it only cried th’ more. ‘ Let me 
have it,’ says I, thinking he were an awkward oud chap. 

• “ Pobbies,” or “pobs,” child’s porridge. 
ii8 


Barton’s London Experiences 

But it were just as bad wi’ me. By shaking th’ babby we 
got better nor a gill into its mouth, but more nor that came 
up again, wetting a’ th’ nice dry clothes landlady had put 
on. Well, just as we’d gotten to th’ dinner- table, and helped 
oursels, and eaten two mouthful, came in th’ guard, and a 
fine chap wi’ a sample o’ calico flourishing in his hand. 
‘ Coach is ready ! ’ says one ; ‘ Half-a-crown your dinner ! ’ 
says the other. Well, we thought it a deal for both our 
dinners, when we’d hardly tasted ’em ; but, bless your life, 
it were half-a-crown apiece, and a shilling for th’ bread and 
milk as were possetted all over babby’s clothes. We spoke 
up again * it ; but everybody said it were the rule, so what 
could two poor oud chaps like us do again it ? Well, poor 
babby cried without stopping to take breath, fra’ that time 
till we got to Brummagem for the night. My heart ached 
for th’ little thing. It caught wi’ its wee mouth at our coat 
sleeves and at our mouths, when we tried t’ comfort it by 
talking to it. Poor little wench ! it wanted its mammy, as 
were lying cold in th’ grave. ‘ Well,’ says I, ‘ it’ll be clemmed 
to death, if it lets out its supper as it did its dinner. Let’s 
get some woman to feed it ; it comes natural to women to 
do for babbies.’ So we asked th’ chambermaid at the inn, 
and she took quite kindly to it ; and we got a good supper, 
and grew rare and sleepy, what wi’ th’ warmth and wi’ our 
long ride i’ the open air. Th’ chambermaid said she would 
like t’ have it t’ sleep wi’ her, only missis would scold so ; 
but it looked so quiet smiling like, as it lay in her arms, that 
we thought ’twould be no trouble to have it wi’ us. I says : 
‘ See, Jennings, how women folk do quieten babbies ; it’s 
just as I said.’ He looked grave ; he were always thoughtful- 
looking, though I never heard him say anything very deep. 
At last says he — 

“ ‘ Young woman ! have you gotten a spare nightcap ? ’ 

“ ‘ Missis always keeps nightcaps for gentlemen as does 
not like to unpack,’ says she, rather quick. 

* “ Again,” for against. “ He that is not with me, he is ageyn 
me.” — Wicklijje' s Version. 

I19 


Mary Barton 

“ ‘ Ay, but young woman, it’s one of your nightcaps I 
want. Th’ babby seems to have taken a mind to yo ; and 
maybe in th’ dark it might take me for yo if I’d gotten your 
nightcap on.’ 

“ The chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but I 
laughed outright at th’ oud bearded chap thinking he’d make 
hissel like a woman just by putting on a woman’s cap. 
Howe’er he’d not be laughed out on’t, so I held th’ babby 
till he were in bed. Such a night as we had on it ! Babby 
began to scream o’ th’ oud fashion, and we took it turn and 
turn about to sit up and rock it. My heart were very sore 
for the little one, as it groped about wi’ its mouth ; but for a’ 
that I could scarce keep fra’ smiling at th’ thought o’ us two 
oud chaps, th’ one wi’ a woman’s nightcap on, sitting on our 
hinder ends for half the night, hush-abying a babby as 
wouldn’t be hushabied. Toward morning, poor little wench ! 
it fell asleep, fairly tired out wi’ crying, but even in its sleep 
it gave such pitiful sobs, quivering up fra’ the very bottom of 
its little heart, that once or twice I almost wished it lay on 
its mother’s breast, at peace for ever. Jennings fell asleep 
too ; but I began for to reckon up our money. It were little 
enough we had left, our dinner the day afore had ta’en so 
much. I didn’t know what our reckoning would be for that 
night lodging, and supper, and breakfast. Doing a sum 
always sent me asleep ever sin’ I were a lad; so I fell 
sound in a short time, and were only wakened by chamber- 
maid tapping at th’ door, to say she’d dress the babby before 
her missis were up if we liked. But bless yo, we’d never 
thought o’ undressing it the night afore, and now it were 
sleeping so sound, and we were so glad o’ the peace and 
quietness, that we thought it were no good to waken it up to 
screech again. 

“ Well ! (there’s Mary asleep for a good listener !) I 
suppose you’re getting weary of my tale, so I’ll not be long 
over ending it. Th’ reckoning left us very bare, and we 
thought we’d best walk home, for it were only sixty mile, 
they telled us, and not stop again for nought, save victuals. 

120 


Barton’s London Experiences 

So we left Brummagem (which is as hlack a place as Man- 
chester, without looking so like home), and walked a’ that 
day, carrying babby turn and turn about. It were well fed 
by chambermaid afore we left, and th' day were fine, and 
folk began to have some knowledge o’ th’ proper way o’ 
speaking, and we were more cheery at thought o’ home 
(though mine, God knows, were lonesome enough). We 
stopped none for dinner, but at bagging-time * we getten 
a good meal at a public-house, an’ fed th’ babby as well as 
we could, but that were but poorly. We got a crust too for 
it to suck — chambermaid put us up to that. That night, 
whether we were tired or whatten, I don’t know, but it were 
dreet work, and th’ poor little wench had slept out her 
sleep, and began th’ cry as wore my heart out again. Says 
Jennings, says he — 

‘“We should na ha’ set out so like gentlefolk a top o’ the 
coach yesterday.’ 

“ ‘ Nay, lad ! We should ha’ had more to walk if we 
had na ridden, and I’m sure both you and I’seJ weary o’ 
tramping.’ 

“So he were quiet a bit. But he were one o’ them as 
were sure to find out somewhat had been done amiss when 
there were no going back to undo it. So presently he coughs, 
as if he were going to speak, and I says to myself, ‘ At it 
again, my lad.’ Says he — 

“I ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha’ 
been better for my son if he had never begun to keep company 
wi’ your daughter.’ 

“ Well ! that put me up, and my heart got very full, and 
but that I were carrying her babby, I think I should ha’ 
struck him. At last I coiild hold it no longer, and says I — 

“ ‘ Better say at once it would ha’ been better for God 

• “ Baggin-time,” time of the evening meal. 

t “ Dree,’’ long and tedious. Anglo-Saxon “ dreogan,” to suffer, to 
endure. 

t “ I have not been, nor is, nor never schal.” — Wickliffe's Apology^ 

p. 1. 


121 


Mary Barton 

never to ha’ made th’ world, for then we’d never ha been in 
it, to have had th’ heavy hearts we have now.’ 

“ Well ! he said that were rank blasphemy ; but I thought 
his way of casting up again th’ events God had pleased to 
send, were worse blasphemy. Howe’er, I said nought more 
angry, for th’ little babby’s sake, as were th’ child o’ his dead 
son, as well as o’ my dead daughter. 

“ Th’ longest lane will have a turning, and that night 
came to an end at last; and we were footsore and tired 
enough, and to my mind the babby were getting weaker and 
weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear its little wail ! I’d 
ha’ given my right hand for one of yesterday’s hearty cries. 
We were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too, mother- 
less babby! We could see no public-houses, so about six 
o’clock (only we thought it were later) we stopped at a 
cottage, where a woman were moving about near th’ open 
door. Says I, ‘ Good woman, may we rest us a bit ? ’ ‘ Come 
in,’ says she, wiping a chair, as looked bright enough afore, 
wi’ her apron. It were a cheery, clean room ; and we were 
glad to sit down again, though I thought my legs would 
never bend at th’ knees. In a minute she fell a noticing th’ 
babby, and took it in her arms, and kissed it again and again. 
‘ Missis,’ says I, ‘ we’re not without money, and if yo’d give 
us somewhat for breakfast, we’d pay yo honest, and if yo 
would wash and dress that poor babby, and get some pobbies 
down its throat, for it’s well nigh clemmed, I’d pray for you 
till my dying day.’ So she said nought but gived me th’ 
babby back, and afore you could say Jack Eobinson, she’d a 
pan on th’ fire, and bread and cheese on th’ table. When 
she turned round, her face looked red, and her lips were tight 
pressed together. WeU 1 we were right down glad on our 
breakfast, and God bless and reward that woman for her 
kindness that day 1 She fed th’ poor babby as gently and 
softly, and spoke to it as tenderly as its own poor mother 
could ha’ done. It seemed as if that stranger and it had 
known each other afore, maybe in heaven, where folk’s 
spirits come from, they say ; th’ babby looked up so lovingly 

122 


Barton’s London Experiences 

in her eyes, and made little noises more like a dove than 
aught else. Then she undressed it (poor darling! it were 
time), touching it so softly ; and washed it from head to foot ; 
and as many on its clothes were dirty, and what bits o’ things 
its mother had gotten ready for it had been sent by th’ 
carrier fra’ London, she put ’em aside ; and wrapping little 
naked babby in her apron, she pulled out a key, as were 
fastened to a black ribbon and hung down her breast, and 
unlocked a drawer in th’ dresser. I were sorry to be prying, 
but I could na help seeing in that drawer some little child’s 
clothes, all strewed wi’ lavender, and lying by ’em a little 
whip an’ a broken rattle. I began to have an insight into 
that woman’s heart then. She took out a thing or two, and 
locked the drawer, and went on dressing babby. Just about 
then come her husband down, a great big fellow as didn’t 
look half awake, though it were getting late ; but he’d heard 
all as had been said downstairs, as were plain to be seen; 
but he were a gruff chap. We’d finished our breakfast, and 
Jennings were looking hard at th’ woman as she were getting 
the babby to sleep wi’ a sort of rocking way. At length 
says he, ‘ I ha’ learnt th’ way now ; it’s two jiggits and a 
shake. I can get that babby asleep now mysel.’ 

“ The man had nodded cross enough to us, and had gone 
to th’ door, and stood there whistling wi’ his hands in his 
breeches-pockets, looking abroad. But at last he turns and 
says, quite sharp — 

“ ‘ I say, missis, I’m to have no breakfast to-day, I ’spose.’ 

“ So wi’ that she kissed th’ child, a long, soft kiss ; and 
looking in my face to see if I could take her meaning, gave 
me th’ babby without a word. I were loath to stir, but I 
saw it were better to go. So giving Jennings a sharp nudge 
(for he’d fallen asleep), I says, ‘Missis, what’s to pay ?’ 
pulling out my money wi’ a jingle that she might na guess 
we were at all bare o’ cash. So she looks at her husband, 
who said ne’er a word but were listening with all his ears 
nevertheless ; and when she saw he would na say, she said, 
hesitating, as if pulled two ways, by her fear o’ him, ‘ Should 

123 


Mary Barton 

5^ou think sixpence over much ? ’ It were so different to 
public-house reckoning, for we’d eaten a main deal afore the 
chap came down. So says I, ‘ And, missis, what should we 
gi’ you for the babby’s bread and milk ? ’ (I had it once in 
my mind to say ‘ and for a’ your trouble with it,’ but my 
heart would na let me say it, for I could read in her ways 
how it had been a work o’ love). So says she, quite quick, 
and stealing a look at her husband’s back, as looked all ear, 
if ever a back did, ‘ Oh, we could take nought for the little 
babby’s food, if it had eaten twice as much, bless it.’ Wi’ 
that he looked at her ; such a scowling look ! She knew 
what he meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him, 
and put her hand on his arm. He seem’d as though he’d 
shake it off by a jerk on his elbow, but she said quite low, 

‘ For poor little Johnnie’s sake, Eichard.’ He did not move 
or speak again, and, after looking in his face for a minute, 
she turned away, swallowing deep in her throat. She kissed 
th’ sleeping babby as she passed, when I paid her. To 
quieten th’ gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, 
I could na help slipping another sixpence under th’ loaf, and 
then we set off again. Last look I had o’ that woman she 
were quietly wiping her eyes wi’ the corner of her apron, as 
she went about her husband’s breakfast. But I shall know 
her in heaven.” 

He stopped to think of that long ago May morning, when 
he had carried his grand-daughter under the distant hedge- 
rows and beneath the flowering sycamores. 

“ There’s nought more to say, wench,” said he to Margaret, 
as she begged him to go on. “ That night we reached Man- 
chester, and I’d found out that Jennings would be glad 
enough to give up babby to me, so I took her home at once, 
and a blessing she’s been to me.” 

They were all silent for a few minutes ; each following 
out the current of their thoughts. Then, almost simul- 
taneously, their attention fell upon Mary. Sitting on her little 
stool, her head resting on her father’s knee, and sleeping as 
soundly as any infant, her breath (still like an infant’s) came 

124 


Barton’s Loudon Experiences 

and went as softly as a bird steals to her leafy nest. Her 
half-open mouth was as scarlet as the winter-berries, and 
contrasted finely with the clear paleness of her complexion, 
where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at each motion. 
Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which was 
still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that 
seemed to form a nest-like pillar for her as she lay. Her 
father in fond pride straightened one glossy curl, for an 
instant, as if to display its length and silkiness. The little 
action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten people in similar 
circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her eyes to their 
fullest extent — 

“ I’m not asleep. I’ve been awake all the time.” 

Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job 
Legh and Margaret laughed outright. 

“ Come, wench,” said Joh, “ don’t look so gloppened * 
because thou’st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was 
talking on oud times. It were like enough to send thee 
to sleep. Try if thou canst keep thine eyes open while I 
read thy father a bit on a poem as is written by a weaver 
like oursel. A rare chap I’ll be bound is he who could 
weave verse like this.” 

So adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, 
crossing his legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read 
aloud a little poem of Samuel Bamford’s f he had picked up 
somewhere. 

God help the poor, who, on this wintry morn. 

Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure. 

God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn. 

And meekly her affliction doth endure ; 

God help her, outcast lamb ; she trembling stands, 

All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands ; 


* “ Gloppened,” amazed, frightened. 

t The fine-spirited author of “ Passages in the Life of a Radical ” — 
a man who illustrates his order, and shows what nobility may be in a 
cottage. 


135 


Mary Barton 

Her sunken eyes are modestly downcast, 

Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast ; 

Her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed, 

And oh 1 so cold, the snow lies there congealed ; 

Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn, 

God help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn ! 

God help the poor t 

God help the poor 1 An infant’s feeble wail 
Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold ! 

A female crouching there, so deathly pale, 

Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold ; 

Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn ; 

A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold : 

And so she ’bides the ruthless gale of morn. 

Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold, 

And now she, sudden, darts a ravening look. 

As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook ; 

And, as the tempting load is onward borne. 

She weeps. God help thee, helpless one, forlorn ! 

God help the poor ! 


God help the poor ! Behold yon famished lad, 

No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect ; 

With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad, 

He wanders onward, stopping to inspect 
Each window, stored with articles of food. 

He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal ; 

Oh I to the hungry palate viands rude 
Would yield a zest the famished only feel I 
He now devours a crust of mouldy bread ; 

With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn ; 
Unmindful of the storm that round his head 
Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn ! 

God help the poor I 


God help the poor 1 Another have I found — 

A bowed and venerable man is he ; 

His slouched hat with faded crape is bound ; 

His coat is grey, and threadbare too, I see. 

“ The rude winds ” seem “ to mock his hoary hair ; ” 
His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare. 

126 


Barton’s London Experiences 

Anon he turns and casts a wistful eye. 

And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray, 

And looks around, as if he fain would spy 
Friends he had feasted in his better day : 

Ah 1 some are dead : and some have long forborne 
To know the poor ; and he is left forlorn 1 

God help the poor I 

God help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell. 

Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow ; 

Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell ; 

Yet little cares the world, and less ’twould know 
. About the toil and want men tmdergo. 

The wearying loom doth call them up at morn ; 

They work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep ; 

They taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep 
Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door ; 

The night-storm howls a dirge across the moor ; 

And shall they perish thus — oppressed and lorn ? 

Shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne ? 

No 1 God will yet arise and help the poor 1 

“ Amen ! ” said Barton, solemnly and sorrowfully. “ Mary! 
wench, couldst thou copy me them lines, dost think ? — that’s 
to say, if Joh there has no objection.” 

“Not I. More they’re heard and read and the better, 
say I.” 

So Mary took the paper. And the next day, on a blank 
half -sheet of a valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts 
— a valentine she had once suspected to come from Jem 
Wilson — she copied Bamford’s beautiful little poem. 


127 


Mary Barton 


CHAPTBE X 

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL 

“ My heart, once soft as woman’s tear, is gnarled 
With gloating on the ills I cannot cure.” 

Elliott. 

“ Then guard and shield her innocence, 

Let her not fall like me ; 

’Twere better, oh 1 a thousand times, 

She in her grave should be.” 

“The Outcast.” 

Despair settled down like a heavy cloud ; and now and then, 
through the dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy 
winds, foretelling the end of these dark prognostics. In 
times of sorrowful or fierce endurance, we are often soothed 
by the mere repetition of old proverbs which tell the experi- 
ence of our forefathers ; but now, “it’s a long lane that has 
no turning,” “ the weariest day draws to an end,” &c., seemed 
false and vain sayings, so long and so weary was the pressure 
of the terrible times. Deeper and deeper still sank the poor ; 
it showed how much lingering suffering it takes to kill men, 
that so few (in comparison) died during those times. But 
remember ! we only miss those who do men’s work in their 
humble sphere ; the aged, the feeble, the children, when they 
die, are hardly noted by the world ; and yet to many hearts, 
their deaths make a blank which long years will never fill 
up. Kemember, too, that though it may take much suffering 
to kill the- able-bodied and effective members of society, it 
does not take much to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased 
creatures, who thenceforward crawl through life with moody 
hearts and pain-stricken bodies. 

The people had thought the poverty of the preceding 
years hard to bear, and had found its yoke heavy ; but this 
year added sorely to its weight. Former times had chastised 
them with whips, but this chastised them with scorpions. 

128 


Return of the Prodigal 

Of course, Barton had his share of mere bodily sufferings. 
Before he had gone up to London on his vain errand, he had 
been working short time. But in the hopes of speedy redress 
by means of the interference of Parliament, he had thrown 
up his place ; and now, when he asked leave to resume his 
work, he was told they were diminishing their number of 
hands every week, and he was made aware, by the remarks 
of fellow-workmen, that a Chartist delegate, and a leading 
member of a Trades’ Union, was not likely to be favoured in 
his search after employment. Still he tried to keep up a 
brave heart concerning himself. He knew he could bear 
hunger; for that power of endurance had been called forth 
when he was a little child, and had seen his mother hide her 
daily morsel to share it among her children, and when he, 
being the eldest, had told the noble lie, that “ he was not 
hungry, could not eat a bit more,” in order to imitate his 
mother’s bravery, and still the sharp wail of the younger 
infants. Mary, too, was secure of two meals a day at Miss 
Simmon.ds’ ; though, by the way, the dressmaker too, feeling 
the effect of bad times, had left off giving tea to her apprentices, 
setting them the example of long abstinence by putting off 
her own meal till work was done for the night, however late 
that might be. 

But the rent ! It was half-a-crown a week — nearly all 
Mary’s earnings — and much less room might do for them, 
only two. — (Now came the time to be thankful that the early 
dead were saved from the evil to come.) — The agricultural 
labourer generally has strong local attachments ; but they are 
far less common, almost obliterated, among the inhabitants 
of a town. Still there are exceptions, and Barton formed 
one. He had removed to his present house just after the last 
bad times, when little Tom had sickened and died. He had 
then thought the bustle of a removal would give his poor 
stunned wife something to do, and he had taken more interest 
in the details of the proceeding than he otherwise would have 
done, in the hope of calling her forth to action again. So he 
seemed to know every brass-headed nail driven up for her 

129 K 


Mary Barton 

convenience. Only one had been displaced. Ifc was Esther’s 
bonnet nail, which in his deep revengeful anger against her, 
after his wife’s death, he had tom out of the wall, and cast 
into the street. It would be hard work to leave the house, 
which yet seemed hallowed by his wife’s presence in the 
happy days of old. But he was a law unto himself, though 
sometimes a bad, fierce law; and he resolved to give the 
rent-collector notice, and look out for a cheaper abode, and 
tell Mary they must flit. Poor Mary ! she loved the house, 
too. It was wrenching up her natural feelings of home, for 
it would be long before the fibres of her heart would gather 
themselves about another place. 

This trial was spared. The collector (of himself), on the 
very Monday when Barton planned to give him notice of his 
intention to leave, lowered the rent threepence a week, just 
enough to make Barton compromise and agree to stay on a 
little longer. 

But by degrees the house was stripped of aU its httle 
ornaments. Some were broken ; and the odd twopences and 
threepences, wanted to pay for their repairs, were required 
for the far sterner necessity of food. And by- and- by Mary 
began to part with other superfluities at the pawn-shop. The 
smart tea-tray, and tea-caddy, long and carefully kept, went 
for bread for her father. He did not ask for it, or complain, 
but she saw hunger in his shrunk, fierce, animal look. Then 
the blankets went, for it was summer time, and they could 
spare them ; and their sale made a fund, which Mary fancied 
would last till better times came. But it was soon all gone ; 
and then she looked around the room to crib it of its few 
remaining ornaments. To all these proceedings her father 
said never a word. If he fasted, or feasted (after the sale of 
some article) on an unusual meal of bread and cheese, he 
took all with a sullen indifference, which depressed Mary’s 
heart. She often wished he would apply for rehef from the 
Guardians’ relieving office ; often wondered the Trades’ Union 
did nothing for him. Once, when she asked him as he sat, 
grimed, unshaven, and gaunt, after a day’s fasting, over the 


Return of the Prodigal 

fire, why he did not get relief from the town, he turned round, 
with grim wrath, and said, “I don’t want money, child! 
D — n their charity and their money ! I want work, and it is 
my right. I want work.” 

He would hear it all, he said to himself. And he did bear 
it, but not meekly; that was too much to expect. Eeal 
meekness of character is called out by experience of kindness. 
And few had been kind to him. Yet through it all, with 
stem determination he refused the assistance his Trades’ 
Union would have given him. It had not much to give, but, 
with worldly wisdom, thought it better to propitiate an active, 
useful member, than to help those who were more unenergetic, 
though they had large families to provide for. Not so thought 
John Barton. With him, need was right. 

“ Give it to Tom Darbyshire,” he said. “ He’s more 
claim on it than me, for he’s more need of it, with his seven 
children.” 

Now Tom Darbyshire was, in his listless, grumbling way, 
a backbiting enemy of John Barton’s. And he knew it; but 
he was not to be influenced by that in a matter like this. 

Mary went early to her work ; but her cheery laugh over 
it was now missed by the other girls. Her mind wandered 
over the present distress, and then settled, as she stitched, on 
the visions of the future, where yet her thoughts dwelt more 
on the circumstances of ease, and the pomps and vanities 
awaiting her, than on the lover with whom she was to share 
them. Still she was not insensible to the pride of having 
attracted one so far above herself in station ; not insensible 
to the secret pleasure of knowing that he, whom so many 
admired, had often said he would give anything for one of 
her sweet smiles. Her love for him was a bubble, blown out 
of vanity; but it looked very real and very bright. Sally 
Leadbitter, meanwhile, keenly observed the signs of the 
times ; she found out that Mary had begun to affix a stern 
value to money as the “ Purchaser of Life,” and many girls 
had been dazzled and lured by gold, even without the betray- 
ing love which she believed to exist in Mary’s heart. So she 

131 


Mary Barton 

urged young Mr. Carson, by representations of the want she 
was sure surrounded Mary, to bring matters more to a point. • 
But he had a kind of instinctive dread of hurting Mary’s 
pride of spirit, and durst not hint his knowledge in any way 
of the distress that many must be enduring. He felt that 
for the present he must still be content with stolen meetings 
and summer evening strolls, and the delight of pouring sweet 
honeyed words into her ear, while she listened with a blush 
and a smile that made her look radiant with beauty. No ; 
he would be cautious in order to be certain ; for Mary, one 
way or another, he must make his. He had no doubt of the 
effect of his own personal charms in the long run ; for he 
knew he was handsome, and believed himself fascinating. 

If he had known what Mary’s home was, he would not 
have heen so much convinced of his increasing influence over 
her, by her being more and more ready to hnger with him in 
the sweet summer air. For when she returned for the night 
her father was often out, and the house wanted the cheerful 
look it had had in the days when money was never wanted 
to purchase soap and brushes, black-lead and pipe-clay. It 
was dingy and comfortless ; for, of course, there was not even 
the dumb familiar home-friend, a fire. And Margaret, too, 
was now very often from home, singing at some of those 
grand places. And Alice; oh, Mary wished she had never 
left her cellar to go and live at Ancoats with her sister-in- 
law. For in that matter Mary felt very guilty ; she had put 
off and put off going to see the widow, after George Wilson’s 
death, from dread of meeting Jem, or giving him reason to 
think she wished to be as intimate with him as, formerly; 
and now she was so much ashamed of her delay that she was 
likely never to go at all. 

If her father was at home it was no better ; indeed, it 
was worse. He seldom spoke, less than ever; and often 
when he did speak, they were sharp angry words, such as 
he had never given her formerly. Her temper was high, 
too, and her answers not over-mild ; and once in his passion 
he had even beaten her. If Sally Leadbitter or Mr. Carson 

132 


Return of the Prodigal 

had been at hand at that moment, Mary would have been 
ready to leave home for ever. She sat alone, after her 
father had flung out of the house, bitterly thinking on 
the days that were gone ; angry with her own hastiness, 
and believing that her father did not love her ; striving to 
heap up one painful thought on another. Who cared for 
her? Mr. Carson might, but in this grief that seemed no 
comfort. Mother dead ! Father so often angry, so lately 
cruel (for it was a hard blow, and blistered and reddened 
Mary’s soft white skin with pain) : and then her heart 
turned round, and she remembered with self-reproach how 
provokingly she had looked and spoken, and how much her 
father had to bear ; and oh, what a kind and loving parent 
he had been, till these days of trial. The remembrance of 
one little instance of his fatherly love after another thronged 
into her mind, and she began to wonder how she could have 
behaved to him as she had done. 

Then he came home ; and but for very shame she would 
have confessed her penitence in words. But she looked 
sullen, from her effort to keep down emotion ; and for some 
time her father did not know how to begin to speak. At 
length he gulped down pride, and said — 

“ Mary, I’m not above saying I’m very sorry I beat thee. 
Thou wert a bit aggravating, and I’m not the man I was. 
But it were wrong, and I’ll try never to lay hands on thee 
again.” 

So he held out his arms, and in many tears she told him 
her repentance for her fault. He never struck her again. 

Still, he often was angry. But that was almost better 
than being silent. Then he sat near the fire-place (from 
habit) smoking, or chewing opium. Oh, how Mary loathed 
that smell ! And in the dusk, just before it merged into the 
short summer night, she had learned to look with dread 
towards the window, which now her father would have kept 
uncurtained ; for there were not seldom seen sights which 
haunted her in her dreams. Strange faces of pale men, 
with dark glaring eyes, peered into the inner darkness, and 

133 


Mary Barton 

seemed desirous to- ascertain if her father was at home. Or, 
a hand and arm (the body hidden) was put within the door, 
and beckoned him away. He always went. And once or 
twice, when Mary was in bed, she heard men’s voices below, 
in earnest, whispered talk. 

They were all desperate members of Trades’ Unions, 
ready for anything ; made ready by want. 

While all this change for gloom yet struck fresh and 
heavy on Mary’s heart, her father startled her out of a 
reverie one evening, by asking her when she had been to see 
Jane Wilson. From his manner of speaking, she was made 
aware that he had been ; but at the time of his visit he had 
never mentioned anything about it. Now, however, he 
gruffly told her to go next day without fail, and added some 
abuse of her for not having been before. The little outward 
impulse of her father’s speech gave Mary the push which 
she in this instance required ; and accordingly, timing her 
visit so as to avoid Jem’s hours at home, she went the 
following afternoon to Ancoats. 

The outside of the well-known house struck her as 
different ; for the door was closed, instead of open, as it 
once had always stood. The window-plants, George Wilson’s 
pride and especial care, looked withering and drooping. They 
had been without water for a long time, and now, when the 
widow had reproached herself severely for neglect, in her 
ignorant anxiety she gave them too much. On opening the 
door, Alice was seen, not stirring about in her habitual way, 
but knitting by the fireside. The room felt hot, although 
the fire burnt grey and dim, under the bright rays of the 
afternoon sun. Mrs. Wilson was “ siding ” * the dinner things, 
and talking all the time, in a kind of whining, shouting voice, 
which Mary did not at first understand. She understood, at 
once, however, that her absence had been noted, and talked 
over ; she saw a constrained look on Mrs. Wilson’s sorrow- 
stricken face, which told her a scolding was to come. 

“Dear! Mary, is that you?” she began. “Why, who 
• To “ side,” to put aside, or in order. 

134 


Return of the Prodigal 

would ha’ dreamt of seeing you ! We thought you’d clean 
forgotten us; and Jem has often wondered if he should 
know you, if he met you in the street.” 

Now, poor Jane Wilson had been sorely tried ; and at 
present her trials had had no outward effect but that of 
increased acerbity of temper. She wished to show Mary 
how much she was offended, and meant to strengthen her 
cause by putting some of her own sharp speeches into Jem’s 
mouth. 

Mary felt guilty, and had no good reason to give as an 
apology; so for a minute she stood silent, looking very 
much ashamed, and then turned to speak to aunt Alice, 
who, in her surprised, hearty greeting to Mary, had dropped 
her ball of worsted, and was busy, trying to set the thread to 
rights, before the kitten had entangled it past redemption, 
once round every chair, and twice round the table. 

“ You mun speak louder than that, if you mean her to 
hear ; she’s become as deaf as a post this last few weeks. 
I’d ha’ told you, if I’d remembered how long it were sin’ 
you’d seen her.” 

“ Yes, my dear, I’m getting very hard o’ hearing of late,” 
said Alice, catching the state of the case, with her quick 
glancing eyes. “ I suppose it’s the beginning of th’ end.” 

“Don’t talk o’ that way,” screamed her sister-in-law. 
“ We’ve had enow of ends and deaths without forecasting 
more.” She covered her face with her apron, and sat down 
to cry. 

“ He was such a good husband,” said she, in a less 
excited tone, to Mary, as she looked up with tear- streaming 
eyes from behind her apron. “ No one can tell what I’ve 
lost in him, for no one knew his worth like me.” 

Mary’s listening sympathy softened her, and she went on 
to unburden her heavy-laden heart. 

“ Eh, dear, dear ! No one knows what I’ve lost. When 
my poor boys went, 1 thought the Almighty had crushed me 
to th’ ground, but I never thought o' losing George ; I did 
na think I could ha’ borne to ha’ lived without him. And 

135 


Mary Barton 

yet I’m here, and he’s” A fresh burst of crying 

interrupted her speech. 

“Mary,” — beginning to speak again, — “did you ever 
hear what a poor creature I were when he married me ? 
And he such a handsome fellow ! Jem’s nothing to what 
his father were at his age.” 

Yes! Mary had heard, and so she said. But the poor 
woman’s thoughts had gone back to those days, and her 
little recollections came out, with many interruptions of 
sighs, and tears, and shakes of the head. 

“ There were nought about me for him to choose me. 
I were just well enough afore that accident, but at after 
I were downright plain. And there was Bessy Witter as 
would ha’ given her eyes for him ; she as is Mrs. Carson 
now, for she were a handsome lass, although I never could 
see her beauty then ; and Carson warn’t so much above her, 
as they’re both above us all now.” 

Mary went very red, and wished she could help doing so, 
and wished also that Mrs. Wilson would tell her more about 
the father and mother of her lover ; but she durst not ask, 
and Mrs. Wilson’s thoughts soon returned to her husband, 
and their early married days. 

“ If you’ll believe me, Mary, there never was such a bom 
goose at housekeeping as I were ; and yet he married me 1 
I had been in a factory sin’ five years old a’ most, and I 
knew nought about cleaning, or cooking, let alone washing 
and such like work. The day after we were married, he 
went to his work at after breakfast, and says he, “ Jenny, 
we’ll ha’ th’ cold beef, and potatoes, and that’s a dinner for 
a prince.’ I were anxious to make him comfortable, God 
knows how anxious. And yet I’d no notion how to cook 

a potato. I know’d they were boiled, and know’d their 

skins were taken off, and that were all. So I tidied my 

house in a rough kind o’ way, then I looked at that very 

clock up yonder,” pointing at one that hung against the 
wall, “ and I seed it were nine o’clock, so, thinks I, th’ 
potatoes shall be well boiled at any rate, and I gets ’em on 

136 


Return of the Prodigal 

th’ fire in a jiffy (that’s to say, as soon as I could peel ’em, 
which were a tough job at first), and then I fell to unpacking 
my boxes ! and at twenty minutes past twelve, he comes home, 
and I had the beef ready on th’ table, and I went to take the 
potatoes out o’ th’ pot ; but oh ! Mary, th’ water had boiled 
away, and they were all a nasty brown mess, as smelt 
through all the house. He said nought, and were very 
gentle ; but oh ! Mary, I cried so that afternoon. I shall 
ne’er forget it ; no, never. I made many a blunder at after, 
but none that fretted me like that.” 

“Father does not like girls to work in factories,” said 
Mary. 

“ No, I know he does not ; and reason good. They 
oughtn’t to go at after they’re married, that I’m very clear 
about. I could reckon up ” (counting with her finger), “ ay, 
nine men, I know, as has been driven to th’ public-house by 
having wives as worked in factories ; good folk, too, as 
thought there was no harm in putting their little ones out at 
nurse, and letting their house go all dirty, and their fires all 
out ; and that was a place as was tempting for a husband to 
stay in, was it? He soon finds out gin-shops, where all 
is clean and bright, and where th’ fire blazes cheerily, and 
gives a man a welcome as it were.” 

Alice, who was standing near for the convenience of 
hearing, had caught much of this speech, and it was evident 
the subject had previously been discussed by the women, for 
she chimed in. 

“ I wish our Jem could speak a word to th’ Queen, about 
factory work for married women. Eh ! but he comes it 
strong when once yo get him to speak about it. Wife o’ 
his’n will never work away fra’ home.” 

“ I say it’s Prince Albert as ought to be asked how he’d 
like his missis to be from home when he comes in, tired and 
worn, and wanting some one to cheer him ; and maybe, her 
to come in by-and-by, just as tired and down in th’ mouth; 
and how he’d like for her never to be at home to see to th’ 
cleaning of his house, or to keep a bright fire in his grate. 

137 


Mary Barton 

Let alone his meals being all hugger-mugger and comfort- 
less. I’d be bound, prince as be is, if his missis served him 
so, he’d be off to a gin-palace, or summut o’ that kind. So 
why can’t he make a law again poor folks’ wives working in 
factories ? ” 

Mary ventured to say that she thought the Queen and 
Prince Albert could not make laws, but the answer was — 

“ Pooh ! don’t tell me it’s not the Queen as makes laws ; 
and isn’t she bound to obey Prince Albert ? And if he said 
they mustn’t, why she’d say they mustn’t, and then all folk 
would say, oh, no, we never shall do any such thing no 
more.” 

“Jem’s getten on rarely,” said Alice, who had not heard 
her sister’s last burst of eloquence, and whose thoughts were 
still running on her nephew, and his various talents. “ He’s 
found out summut about a crank or tank, I forget rightly 
which it is, but th’ master’s made him foreman, and he all 
the while turning off hands ; but he said he could na part 
wi’ Jem, nohow. He’s good wage now ; I tell him he’ll be 
thinking of marrying soon, and he deserves a right down 
good wife, that he does.” 

Mary went very red, and looked annoyed, although there 
was a secret spring of joy deep down in her heart, at hearing 
Jem so spoken of. But his mother only saw the annoyed 
look, and was piqued accordingly. She was not over and 
above desirous that her son should marry. His presence in 
the house seemed a relic of happier times, and she had some 
little jealousy of his future wife, whoever she might be. 
Still she could not bear any one not to feel gratified and 
flattered by Jem’s preference, and full well she knew how 
above all others he preferred Mary. Now she had never 
thought Mary good enough for Jem, and her late neglect in 
coming to see her still rankled a little in her breast. So she 
determined to invent a little, in order to do away with any 
idea Mary might have that Jem would choose her for “his 
right down good wife,” as aunt Alice called it. 

“ Ay, he’ll be for taking a wife soon,” and then, in a 

138 


Return of the Prodigal 

lower voice, as if confidentially, but really to prevent any 
contradiction or explanation from her simple sister-in-law, 
she added — 

“ It’ll not be long afore Molly Gibson (that’s her at th’ 
provision shop round the corner) will hear a Secret as will 
not displease her, I’m thinking. She’s been casting sheep’s 
eyes at our Jem this many a day, but he thought her father 
would not give her to a common working-man ; but now he’s 
good as her, every bit. I thought once he’d a fancy for thee, 
Mary, but I donnot think yo’d ever ha’ suited, so it’s best as 
it is.” 

By an effort Mary managed to keep down her vexation, 
and to say, “ She hoped he’d be happy with Molly Gibson. 
She was very handsome, for certain.” 

“Ay, and a notable body, too. I’ll just step upstairs 
and show you the patchwork quilt she gave me but last 
Saturday.” 

Mary was glad she was going out of the room. Her 
words irritated her ; perhaps not the less because she did not 
fully believe them. Besides, she wanted to speak to Alice, 
and Mrs. Wilson seemed to think that she, as the widow, 
ought to absorb all the attention. 

“ Dear Alice,” began Mary, “ I’m so grieved to find you 
so deaf ; it must have come on very rapid.” 

“ Yes, dear, it’s a trial ; I’ll not deny it. Pray God give 
me strength to find out its teaching. I felt , it sore one fine 
day when I thought I’d go gather some meadow-sweet to 
make tea for Jane’s cough ; and the fields seemed so dree 
and still ; and at first I could na make out what was want- 
ing ; and then it struck me it were th’ song o’ the birds, and 
that I never should hear their sweet music no more, and I 
could na help crying a bit. But I’ve much to be thankful 
for. I think I’m a comfort to Jane, if I’m only some one to 
scold now and then ; poor body ! It takes off her thoughts 
from her sore losses when she can scold a bit. If my eyes 
are left I can do well enough ; I can guess at what folk are 
saying.” 


139 


Mary Barton 

The splendid red and yellow patch quilt now made its 
appearance, and Jane Wilson would not he satisfied unless 
Mary praised it all over, border, centre, and ground- work, 
right side and wrong ; and Mary did her duty, saying all the 
more, because she could not work herself up to any very 
hearty admiration of her rival’s present.' She made haste, 
however, with her commendations, in order to avoid en- 
countering Jem. As soon as she was fairly away from the 
house and street, she slackened her pace, and began to think. 
Did Jem really care for Molly Gibson ? Well, if he did, let 
him. People seemed all to think he was much too good for 
her (Mary’s own self). Perhaps some one else, far more 
handsome, and far more grand, would show him one day 
that she was good enough to be Mrs. Henry Carson. So 
temper, or what Mary called “ spirit,” led her to encourage 
Mr. Carson more than ever she had done before. 

Some weeks after this there was a meeting of the Trades’ 
Union to which John Barton belonged. The morning of 
the day on which it was to take place he had lain late in bed, 
for what was the use of getting up? He had hesitated 
between the purchase of meal or opium, and had chosen the 
latter, for its use had become a necessity with him. He 
wanted it to relieve him from the terrible depression its absence 
occasioned. A large lump seemed only to bring him into a 
natural state, or what had been his natural state formerly. 
Eight o’clock was the hour fixed for the meeting ; and at it 
were read letters, filled with details of woe, from all parts of 
the country. Fierce, heavy gloom brooded over the assembly ; 
and fiercely and heavily did the men separate, towards eleven 
o’clock, some irritated by the opposition of others to then- 
desperate plans. 

It was not a night to cheer them, as they quitted the 
glare of the gas-lighted room, and came out into the street. 
Unceasing, soaking rain was falling ; the very lamps seemed 
obscured by the damp upon the glass, and their light reached 
but to a little distance from the posts. The streets were 
cleared of passers-by ; not a creature seemed stirring, except 

140 


Return of the Prodigal 

here and there a drenched policeman in his oil-skin cape. 
Barton wished the others good night, and set off home. He 
had gone through a street or two, when he heard a step 
behind him ; but he did not care to stop and see who it was. 
A little further, and the person quickened step, and touched 
his arm very lightly. He turned, and saw, even by the dark- 
ness visible of that badly-lighted street, that the woman who 
stood by him was of no doubtful profession. It was told by 
her faded finery, all unfit to meet the pelting of that pitiless 
storm ; the gauze bonnet, once pink, now dirty white ; the 
muslin gown, all draggled, and soaking wet up to the very 
knees ; the gay-coloured barege shawl, closely wrapped round 
the form, which yet shivered and shook, as the woman 
whispered, “ I want to speak to you.” 

He swore an oath, and bade her begone. 

“ I really do. Don’t send me away. I’m so out of 
breath, I cannot say what I would all at once.” She put 
her hand to her side, and caught her breath with evident 
pain. 

“ I tell thee I’m not the man for thee,” adding an 
opprobrious name. “ Stay,” said he, as a thought suggested 
by her voice flashed across him. He griped her arm — the 
arm he had just before shaken off, and dragged her, faintly 
resisting, to the nearest lamp-post. He pushed the bonnet 
back, and roughly held the face she would fain have averted, 
to the light, and in her large, unnaturally bright grey eyes, 
her lovely mouth, half open, as if imploring the forbearance 
she could not ask for in words, he saw at once the long-lost 
Esther ; she who had caused his wife’s death. Much was 
like the gay creature of former years ; but the glaring paint, 
the sharp features, the changed expression of the whole! 
But most of all, he loathed the dress; and yet the poor 
thing, out of her little choice of attire, had put on the plainest 
she had, to come on that night’s errand. 

“So it’s thee, is it? It’s thee!” exclaimed John, as he 
ground his teeth, and shook her with passion. “ I’ve looked 
for thee long at corners o’ streets, and such like places. I 

141 


Mary Barton 

knew I should find thee at last. Thee ’ll maybe bethink thee 
o’ some words I spoke, which put thee up at th’ time; 
summut about street- walkers ; but oh no ! thou art none o’ 
them naughts ; no one thinks thou art, who sees thy fine 
draggle-tailed dress, and thy pretty pink cheeks ! ” stopping 
for very want of breath. 

“ Oh, mercy ! John, mercy ! listen to me for Mary’s 
sake ! ” 

She meant his daughter, but the name only fell on his 
ear as belonging to his wife ; and it was adding fuel to the 
fire. In vain did her face grow deadly pale around the vivid 
circle of paint, in vain did she gasp for mercy, — he burst 
forth again. 

“ And thou names that name to me ? and thou thinks 
the thought of her will bring thee mercy ! Dost thou know 
it was thee who killed her, as sure as ever Cain killed Abel. 
She’d loved thee as her own, and she trusted thee as her 
own, and when thou wert gone she never held head up again, 
but died in less than a three week ; and at her judgment- 
day she’ll rise, and point to thee as her murderer ; or if she 
don’t, I will.” 

He flung her, trembling, sinking, fainting, from him, and 
strode away. She fell with a feeble scream against the 
lamp-post, and lay there in her weakness, unable to rise. 
A policeman came up in time to see the close of these 
occurrences, and concluding from Esther’s unsteady, reeling 
fall, that she was tipsy, he took her in her half-unconscious 
state to the lock-ups for the night. The superintendent of 
that abode of vice and misery was roused from his dozing 
watch through the dark hours, by half-delirious wails and 
moanings, which he reported as arising from intoxication. 
If he had listened, he would have heard these words, repeated 
■in various forms, but always in the same anxious, muttering 
way — 

“ He would not listen to me ; what can I do ? He would 
not listen to me, and I wanted to warn him ! Oh, what 
shall I do to save Mary’s child 1 What shall I do ? How 

142 


Mr. Carson’s Intentions Revealed 

can I keep her from being such a one as I am; such a 
wretched, loathsome creature ! She was listening just as I 
listened, and loving just as I loved, and the end will be just 
like my end. How shall I save her ? She won’t hearken to 
warning, or heed it more than I did : and who loves her well 
enough to watch over her as she should be watched ? God 
keep her from harm ! And yet X won’t pray for her ; sinner 
that I am ! Can my prayers be heard ? No ! they’ll only 
do harm. How shall I save her? He would not hsten 
to me.” 

So the night wore away. The next morning she was 
taken up to the New Bailey. It was a clear case of disorderly 
vagrancy, and she was committed to prison for a month. 
How much might happen in that time ! 


CHAPTEE XI 

MR. Carson’s intentions revealed 

“ O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 

Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only fault is loving thee ? ” 

Burns. 


“ I can like of the wealth, I must confess, 

Yet rnore I prize the man though moneyless ; 

I am not of their humour yet that can 
For title or estate affect a man ; 

Or of myself one body deign to make 
With him I loathe, for his possessions’ sake.” 

Wither’s “ Fidelia.” 

Barton returned home after his encounter with Esther, 
uneasy and dissatisfied. He had said no more than he had 
been planning to say for years, in case she was ever thrown 

143 


Mary Barton 

in his way, in the character in which he felt certain he 
should meet her. He believed she deserved it all, and yet 
he now wished he had not said it. Her look, as she asked 
for mercy, haunted him through his broken and disordered 
sleep ; her form, as he last saw her, lying prostrate in help- 
lessness, would not be banished from his dreams. He sat 
up in bed to try and dispel the vision. Now, too late, his 
conscience smote him with harshness. It would have been 
all very well, he thought, to have said what he did, if he 
had added some kind words, at last. He wondered if his 
dead wife was conscious of that night’s occurrence ; and he 
hoped not, for with her love for Esther he believed it would 
embitter heaven to have seen her so degraded and repulsed. 
For he now recalled her humility, her tacit acknowledgment 
of her lost character ; and he began to marvel if there was 
power in the religion he had often heard of, to turn her from 
her ways. He felt that no earthly power that he knew of 
could do it, but there glimmered on his darkness the idea 
that religion might save her. Still, where to find her again ? 
In the wilderness of a large town, where to meet with an 
individual of so little value or note to any ? 

And evening after evening he paced the same streets in 
which he had heard those footsteps following him, peering 
under every fantastic, discreditable bonnet, in the hopes of 
once more meeting Esther, and addressing her in a far 
different manner from what he had done before. But he 
returned, night after night, disappointed in his search, and 
at last gave it up in, despair, and tried to recall his angry 
feelings towards her, in order to find relief from his present 
self-reproach. 

He often looked at Mary, and wished she were not so 
like her aunt, for the very bodily likeness seemed to suggest 
the possibility of a similar likeness in their fate ; and then 
this idea enraged his irritable mind, and he became suspicious 
and anxious about Mary’s conduct. Now, hitherto she had 
been so remarkably free from all control, and almost from 
all inquiry concerning her actions, that she did not brook 

144 


Mr. Carson’s Intentions Revealed 

this change in her father’s behaviour very 'well. Just when 
she was yielding more than ever to Mr. Carson’s desire of 
frequent meetings, it was hard to be so questioned concerning 
her hours of leaving off work, whether she had come straight 
home, &c. She could not tell lies ; though she could conceal 
much if she were not questioned. So she took refuge in 
obstinate silence, alleging as a reason for it her indignation 
at being so cross-examined. This did not add to the good 
feehng between father and daughter, and yet they dearly 
loved each other ; and, in the minds of each, one prin6ipal 
reason for maintaining such behaviour as displeased the 
other, was the believing that this conduct would insure that 
person’s happiness. 

Her father now began to wish Marj^ was married. Then 
this terrible superstitious fear suggested by her likeness to 
Esther would be done away with. He felt that he could not 
resume the reins he had once slackened. But with a husband 
it would be different. If Jem Wilson would but marry her ! 
With his character for steadiness and talent ! But he was 
afraid Mary had slighted him, he came so seldom now to the 
house. He would ask her. 

“ Mary, what’s come o’er thee and Jem Wilson ? Yo 
were great friends at one time.” 

“ Oh, folk say he is going to be married to Molly Gibson, 
and of course courting takes up a deal o’ time,” answered 
Mary, as indifferently as she could. 

“ Thou’st played thy cards badly, then,” replied her 
father, in a surly tone. “ At one time he were desperate 
fond o’ thee, or I’m much mistaken. Much fonder of thee 
than thou deservedst.” 

“ That’s as people think,” said Mary pertly, for she 
remembered that the very morning before she had met 
Mr. Carson, who had sighed, and sworn, and protested all 
manner of tender vows that she was the loveliest, sweetest, 
best, &c. And when she had seen him afterwards riding 
with one of his beautiful sisters, had he not evidently pointed 
her out as in some way or other an object worthy of attention 

145 L 


Mary Barton 

and interest, and then lingered behind his sister’s horse for a 
moment to kiss his hand repeatedly ? So, as for Jem Wilson, 
she could whistle him down the wind. 

But her father was not in the mood to put up with pert- 
ness, and he upbraided her with the loss of Jem Wilson till 
she had to bite her lips till the blood came, in order to keep 
down the angry words that would rise in her heart. At last 
her father left the house, and then she might give way to 
her passionate tears. 

It so happened that Jem, after much anxious thought, 
had determined that day to “ put his fortune to the touch, to 
win or lose all.” He was in a condition to maintain a wife 
in comfort. It was true his mother and aunt must form part 
of the household : but such is not an uncommon case among 
the poor, and if there were the advantages of previous friend- 
ship between the parties, it was not, he thought, an obstacle 
to matrimony. Both mother and aunt, he believed, would 
welcome Mary. And oh ! what a certainty of happiness the 
idea of that welcome implied. 

He had been absent and abstracted all day long with the 
thought of the coming event of the evening. He almost 
smiled at himself for his care in washing and dressing in 
preparation for his visit to Mary; as if one waistcoat or 
another could decide his fate in so passionately a momentous 
thing. He believed he only delayed before his little looking- 
glass for cowardice, for absolute fear of a girl. He would 
try not to think so much about the affair, and he thought 
the more. 

Poor Jem ! it is not an auspicious moment for thee ! 

“ Come in,” said Mary, as some one knocked at the door, 
while she sat sadly at her sewing, trying to earn a few pence 
by working over hours at some mourning. 

Jem entered, looking more awkward and abashed than 
he had ever done before. Yet here was Mary all alone, just 
as he had hoped to find her. She did not ask him to take 
a chair, but after standing a minute or two he sat down 
near her. 


146 


Mr. Carson’s Intentions Revealed 

“Is your father at home, Mary?” said he, by way of 
making an opening, for she seemed determined to keep 
silence, and went on stitching away. 

“ No, he’s gone to his Union, I suppose.” Another 
silence. It was no use waiting, thought Jem. The subject 
would never be led to by any talk he could think of in his 
anxious, fluttered state. He had better begin at once. 

“Mary!” said he, and the unusual tone of his voice 
made her look up for an instant, but in that time she under- 
stood from his countenance what was coming, and her heart 
beat so suddenly and violently she could hardly sit still. 
Yet one thing she was sure of ; nothing he could say should 
make her have him. She would show them all who would 
be glad to have her. She was not yet calm after her father’s 
irritating speeches. Yet her eyes feU veiled before that 
passionate look fixed upon her. 

“ Dear Mary I (for how dear you are, I cannot rightly tell 
you in words). It’s no new story I’m going to speak about. 
You must ha’ seen and known it long; for since we were 
boy and girl, I ha’ loved you above father and mother and 
all ; and all I’ve thought on by day and dreamt on by night, 
has been something in which you’ve had a share. I’d no 
way of keeping you for long, and I scorned to try and tie 
you down ; and I lived in terror lest some one else should 
take you to himself. But, now, Mary, I’m foreman in th’ 
works, and, dear Mary ! listen,” as she, in her unbearable 
agitation, stood up and turned away from him. He rose 
too, and came nearer, trying to take hold of her hand ; but 
this she would not allow. She was bracing herself up to 
refuse him, for once and for all. 

“ And now, Mary, I’ve a home to ofl’er you, and a heart 
as true as ever man had to love you and cherish you ; we 
shall never be rich folk, I dare say ; but if a loving heart and 
a strong right arm can shield you from sorrow, or from want, 
mine shall do it. I cannot speak as I would like ; my love 
won’t let itself be put in words. But oh ! darling, say you’ll 
believe me, and that you’ll be mina” 

147 


Mary Barton 

She could not speak at once ; her words would not come. 

“ Mary, they say silence gives consent ; is it so ?” he 
whispered. 

Now or never the effort must be made. 

“ No ! it does not with me.” Her voice was calm, although 
she trembled from head to foot. “ I will always be your 
friend, Jem, but I can never be your wife.” 

“Not my wife,” said he mournfully. “ O Mary, think 
awhile ! you cannot be my friend if you will not be my wife. 
At least I can never be content to be only your friend. Do 
think awhile ! If you say No, you will make me hopeless, 
desperate. It’s no love of yesterday. It has made the very 
groundwork of all that people call good in me. I don’t know 
what I shall be if you won’t have me. And, Mary ! think 
how glad your father would be ! It may sound vain, but 
he’s told me more than once how much he should like to see 
us two married ! ” 

Jem intended this for a powerful argument, but in Mary’s 
present mood it told against him more than anything ; for it 
suggested the false and foolish idea, that her father, in his 
evident anxiety to promote her marriage with Jem, had been 
speaking to him on the subject with some degree of 
solicitation. 

“ I tell you, Jem, it cannot be. Once for all, I will never 
marry you.” 

“ And is this the end of all my hopes and fears ? the end 
of my hfe, I may say, for it is the end of all worth living 
for ! ” His agitation rose and carried him into passion. 
“ Mary, you’ll hear, maybe, of me as a drunkard, and maybe 
as a thief, and maybe as a murderer. Eemember ! when all 
are speaking ill of me, you will have no right to blame me, 
for it’s your cruelty that will have made me what I feel I 
shall become. You won’t even say you’ll try and like me ; 
will you, Mary ? ” said he, suddenly changing his tone from 
threatening despair to fond, passionate entreaty, as he took 
her hand and held it forcibly between both of his, while 
he tried to catch a glimpse of her averted face. She was 

148 


Mr. Carson’s Intentions Revealed 

silent, but it was from deep and violent emotion. He could 
not bear to wait; be would not hope, to be dashed away 
again ; he father in his bitterness of heart chose the certainty 
of despair, and before she could resolve what to answer, he 
flung away her hand and rushed out of the house. 

“ Jem ! Jem ! ” cried she, with faint and choking voice. 
It was too late ; he left street after street behind him with 
his almost winged speed, as he sought the fields, where he 
might give way unobserved to all the deep despair he felt. 

It was scarcely ten minutes since he had entered the 
house, and found Mary at comparative peace, and now she 
lay half across the dresser, her head hidden in her hands, 
and every part of her body shaking with the violence of her 
sobs. She could not have told at first (if you had asked her, 
and she could have commanded voice enough to answer) 
why she was in such agonised grief. It was too sudden for 
her to analyse, or think upon it. She only felt, that by her 
own doing her life would be hereafter blank and dreary. 
By-and-by her sorrow exhausted her body by its power, and 
she seemed to have no strength left for crying. She sat 
down ; and now thoughts crowded on her mind. One little 
hour ago, and all was still unsaid, and she had her fate in 
her own power. And yet, how long ago had she determined 
to say pretty much what she did, if the occasion ever oflered. 

It was as if two people were arguing the matter ; that 
mournful desponding communion between her former self, 
and her present self. Herself, a day, an hour ago; and 
herself now. For we have every one of us felt how a very 
few minutes of the months and years called life, will some- 
times suffice to place all time past and future in an entirely 
new light ; will make us see the vanity or the criminality of 
the bygone, and so change the aspect of the coming time 
that we look with loathing on the very thing we have most 
desired. A few moments may change our character for life, 
by giving a totally different direction to our aims and energies. 

To return to Mary. Her plan had been, as we well 
know, to marry Mr. Carson, and the occurrence an hour ago 

149 


Mary Barton 

was only a preliminary step. True ; but it had unveiled her 
heart to her ; it had convinced her that she loved Jem above 
all persons or things. But Jem was a poor mechanic, with 
a mother and aunt to keep ; a mother, too, who had shown 
her pretty clearly that she did not desire her for a daughter- 
in-law : while Mr. Carson was rich, and prosperous, and gay, 
and (she believed) would place her in all circumstances of 
ease and luxury, where want could never come. What were 
these hollow vanities to her, now she had discovered the 
passionate secret of her soul? She felt as if she almost 
hated Mr. Carson, who had decoyed her with his baubles. 
She now saw how vain, how nothing to her, would be all 
gaieties and pomps, all joys and pleasures, unless she might 
share them with Jem ; yes, with him she had harshly rejected 
so short a time ago. If he were poor, she loved him all the 
better. If his mother did think her unworthy of him, what 
was it but the truth ? as she now owned with bitter penitence. 
She had hitherto been walking in grope-light towards a 
precipice ; but in the clear revelation of that past hour, she 
saw her danger, and turned away resolutely, and for ever. 

That was some comfort : I mean her clear perception of 
what she ought not to do ; of what no luring temptation 
should ever again induce her to hearken to. How could she 
best undo the wrong she had done to Jem and herself by 
refusing his love, was another anxious question. She wearied 
herself by proposing plans, and rejecting them. 

She was roused to a consciousness of time, by hearing 
the neighbouring church clock strike twelve. Her father she 
knew might be expected home any minute, and she was in 
no mood for a meeting with him. So she hastily gathered 
up her work, and went to her own little bedroom, leaving 
him to let himself in. 

She put out her candle, that her father might not see its 
light under the door ; and sat down on her bed to think. 
But again, turning things over in her mind again and again, 
she could only determine at once to put an end to all further 
communication with Mr. Carson in the most decided way 

150 


Mr. Carson’s Intentions Revealed 

she could. Maidenly modesty (and true love is ever modest) 
seemed to oppose every plan she could think of, for showing 
Jem how much she repented her decision against him, and 
how dearly she had now discovered that she loved him. She 
came to the unusual wisdom of resolving to do nothing, but 
strive to be patient, and improve circumstances as they 
might turn up. Surely, if Jem knew of her remaining un- 
married, he would try his fortune again. He would never 
be content with one rejection ; she believed she could not in 
his place. She had been very wrong, but now she would 
endeavour to do right, and have womanly patience, until he 
saw her changed and repentant mind in her natural actions. 
Even if she had to wait for years, it was no more than now 
it was easy to look forward to, as a penance for her giddy 
flirting on the one hand, and her cruel mistake concerning 
her feelings on the other. So, anticipating a happy ending 
to the course of her love, however distant it might be, she 
fell asleep just as the earliest factory bells were ringing. 
She had sunk down in her clothes, and her sleep was un- 
refreshing. She wakened up shivery and chill in body, and 
sorrow-stricken in mind, though she could not at first rightly 
tell the cause of her depression. 

She recalled the events of the night before, and still 
resolved to adhere to the determination she had then formed. 
But patience seemed a far more difficult virtue this morning. 

She hastened downstairs, and in her earnest, sad desire 
to do right, now took much pains to secure a comfortable 
though scanty breakfast for her father ; and when he dawdled 
into the room, in an evidently irritable temper, she bore all 
with the gentleness of penitence, till at last her mild answers 
turned away wrath. 

She loathed the idea of meeting Sally Leadbitter at her 
daily work; yet it must be done, and she tried to nerve 
herself for the encounter, and to make it at once understood, 
that having determined to give up having anything further 
to do with Mr. Carson she considered the bond of intimacy 
broken between them. 

151 


Mary Barton 

But Sally was not the person to let these resolutions be 
carried into effect too easily. She soon became aware of the 
present state of Mary’s feelings, but she thought they merely 
arose from the changeableness of girlhood, and that the 
time would come when Mary would thank her for almost 
forcing her to keep up her meetings and communications 
with her rich lover. 

So, when two days had passed over in rather too marked 
avoidance of Sally on Mary’s part, and when the former was 
made aware by Mr. Carson’s complaints that Mary was not 
keeping her appointments with him, and that unless he 
detained her by force, he had no chance of obtaining a 
word as she passed him in the street on her rapid walk 
home, she resolved to compel Mary to what she called her 
own good. 

She took no notice during the third day of Mary’s avoid- 
ance as they sat at work ; she rather seemed to acquiesce in 
the coolness of their intercourse. She put away her sewing 
early, and went home to her mother, who, she said, was 
more ailing than usual. The other girls soon followed her 
example, and Mary, casting a rapid glance up and down the 
street, as she stood last on Miss Simmonds’ doorstep, darted 
homewards, in hopes of avoiding the person whom she was 
fast learning to dread. That night she was safe from any 
encounter on her road, and she arrived at home, which she 
found, as she expected, empty ; for she knew it was a club 
night, which her father would not miss. She sat down to 
recover breath, and to still her heart, which panted more 
from nervousness than from over- exertion, although she had 
walked so quickly. Then she arose, and taking off her 
bonnet, her eye caught the form of Sally Leadbitter passing 
the window with a lingering step, and looking into the dark- 
ness with all her might, as if to ascertain if Mary were 
returned. In an instant she repassed and knocked at the 
house-door ; but, without awaiting an answer, she entered. 

“Well, Mary, dear,” (knowing well how little “dear” 
Mary considered her just then) ; “ it’s so difficult to get any 

152 


Mr. Carson’s Intentions Revealed 

comfortable talk at Miss Simmonds’, I thought I’d just step 
up and see you at home.” 

“ I understood, from what you said, your mother was 
ailing, and that you wanted to be with her,” replied Mary, 
in no welcoming tone. 

“ Ay, but mother’s better now,” said the unabashed Sally. 
“ Your father’s out, I suppose ? ” looking round as well as 
she could ; for Mary made no haste to perform the hospitable 
offices of striking a match, and lighting a candle. 

“ Yes, he’s out,” said Mary shortly, and busying herself 
at last about the candle, without ever asking her visitor to 
sit down. 

“ So much the better,” answered Sally ; “for to tell you 
the truth, Mary, I’ve a friend at th’ end of the road, as is 
anxious to come and see you at home, since you’re grown so 
particular as not to like to speak to him in the street. He’ll 
be here directly.” 

“ O Sally, don’t let him,” said Mary, speaking at last 
heartily ; and running to the door, she would have fastened 
it, but Sally held her hands, laughing meanwhile at her 
distress. 

“ Oh, please, Sally,” struggling, “ dear Sally ! don’t let 
him come here, the neighbours will so talk, and father’ll go 
mad if he hears; he’ll kill me, Sally, he will. Besides, I 
don’t love him — I never did. Oh, let me go,” as footsteps 
approached ; and then, as they passed the house, and seemed 
to give her a respite, she continued, “ Do, Sally, dear Sally, 
go and tell him I don’t love him, and that I don’t want to 
have anything more to do with him. It was very wrong, I 
dare say, keeping company with him at all, but I’m very 
sorry, if I’ve led him to think too much of me ; and I don’t 
want him to think any more. Will you tell him this, Sally ? 
and I’ll do anything for you, if you will.” 

“ I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Sally, in a more relenting 
mood ; “ I’ll go back with you to where he’s waiting for us ; 
or rather, I should say, where I told him to wait for a quarter 
of an hour, till I seed if your father was at home ; and if I 

153 


Mary Barton 

didn’t come back in that time, he said he’d come here, and 
break the door open but he’d see you.” 

“ Oh, let us go, let us go,” said Mary, feeling that the 
interview must be, and had better be anywhere than at 
home, where her father might return at any minute. She 
snatched up her bonnet, and was at the end of the court in 
an instant ; but then, not knowing whether to turn to the 
right or to the left, she was obliged to wait for Sally, who 
came leisurely up, and put her arm through Mary’s with 
a kind of decided hold, intended to prevent the possibility of 
her changing her mind and turning back. But this, under 
the circumstances, was quite different to Mary’s plan. She 
had wondered more than once if she must not have another 
interview with Mr. Carson ; and had then determined, while 
she expressed her resolution that it should be the final one, 
to tell him how sorry she was if she had thoughtlessly given 
him false hopes. For, be it remembered, she had the 
innocence, or the ignorance, to believe his intentions honour- 
able ; and he, feeling that at any price he must have her, 
only that he would obtain her as cheaply as he could, had 
never undeceived her ; while Sally Leadbitter laughed in her 
sleeve at them both, and wondered how it would all end — 
whether Mary would gain her point of marriage, with her 
sly affectation of believing such to be Mr. Carson’s intention 
in courting her. 

Not very far from the end of the street, into which the 
court where Mary lived opened, they met Mr. Carson, his 
hat a good deal slouched over his face, as if afraid of being 
recognised. He turned when he saw them coming, and led 
the way without uttering a word (although they were close 
behind) to a street of half-finished houses. 

The length of the walk gave Mary time to recoil from the 
interview which was to follow ; but even if her own resolve 
to go through with it had failed, there was the steady grasp 
of Sally Leadbitter, which she could not evade without an 
absolute struggle. 

At last he stopped in the shelter and concealment of 

154 


Mr. Carson’s Intentions Revealed 

a wooden fence, put up to keep the building rubbish from 
intruding on the foot-pavement. Inside this fence, a minute 
afterwards the girls were standing by him; Mary now 
returning Sally’s detaining grasp with interest, for she had 
determined on the way to make her a witness, willing or 
unwilling, to the ensuing conversation. But Sally’s curiosity 
led her to be a very passive prisoner in Mary’s hold. 

With more freedom than he had ever used before, Mr. 
Carson put his arm firmly round Mary’s waist, in spite of 
her indignant resistance. 

“Nay, nay ! you little witch ! Now I have caught you, 
I shall keep you prisoner. Tell me now what has made 
you run away from me so fast these few days — tell me, you 
sweet little coquette ! ” 

Mary ceased struggling, but turned so as to be almost 
opposite to him, while she spoke out calmly and boldly — 

“ Mr. Carson ! I want to speak to you for once and for 
all. Since I met you last Monday evening, I have made up 
my mind to have nothing more to do with you. I know I’ve 
been wrong in leading you to think I liked you; but I 
believe I didn’t rightly know my own mind ; and I humbly 
beg your pardon, sir, if I’ve led you to think too much 
of me.” 

For an instant he was surprised ; the next, vanity came 
to his aid, and convinced him that she could only be joking. 
He, young, agreeable, rich, handsome ! No ! she was only 
showing a little womanly fondness for coquetting ! 

“ You’re a darling little rascal to go on in this way I 
‘ Humbly begging my pardon if you’ve made me think too 
much of you.’ As if you didn’t know I think of you from 
morning till night. But you want to be told it again and 
again, do you ? ” 

“ No, indeed, sir, I don’t. I would far liefer * that you 
should say you would never think of me again, than that you 

* “ Liefer,” rather. 

“ Yet had I levre unwist for sorrow die.” 

Chaucer, Troilus and Creseide. 

155 


Mary Barton 

should speak of me in this way. For indeed, sir, I never 
was more in earnest than I am, when I say to-night is the 
last night I will ever speak to you.” 

“ Last night, you sweet little equivocator, but not last 
day. Ha, Mary, I’ve caught you, have I ? ” as she, puzzled 
by his perseverance in thinking her joking, hesitated in what 
form she could now put her meaning. 

“ I mean, sir,” she said, sharply, “ that I will never speak 
to you again, at any time, after to-night.” 

“ And what’s made this change, Mary ? ” said he, seriously 
enough now. “ Have I done anything to offend you ? ” 
added he earnestly. 

“ No, sir,” she answered gently, but yet firmly. “ I can- 
not tell you exactly why I’ve changed my mind ; but I shall 
not alter it again ; and, as I said before, I beg your pardon 
if I’ve done wrong by you. And now, sir, if you please, 
good-night.” 

“ But I do not please. You shall not go. What have I 
done, Mary? Tell me. You must not go without telling 
me how I have vexed you. What would you have me do ? ” 

“ Nothing, sir, but ” (in an agitated tone), “ oh ! let me 
go ! You cannot change my mind ; it’s quite made up. Oh, 
sir ! why do you hold me so tight ? If you will know why I 
won’t have anything more to do with you, it is that I cannot 
love you. I have tried, and I really cannot.” 

This naive and candid avowal served her but little. He 
could not understand how it could be true. Some reason 
lurked behind. He was passionately in love. What should 
he do to tempt her ? A thought struck him. 

“ Listen ! Mary. Nay, I cannot let you go till you have 
heard me. I do love you dearly; and I won’t believe but 
what you love me a very little, just a very little. Well, if 
you don’t like to own it, never mind ! I only want now to 
tell you how much I love you, by what I am ready to give 
up for you. You know (or perhaps you are not fully aware) 
how little my father and mother would like me to marry you. 
So angry would they be, and so much ridicule should I have 

156 


Mr. Carson’s Intentions Revealed 

to brave, that of course I have never thought of it till now. 
I thought we could be happy enough without marriage.” 
(Deep sank those words into Mary’s heart.) “ But now, if 
you like. I’ll get a licence to-morrow morning — nay, to-night, 
and I’ll marry you in defiance of all the world, rather than 
give you up. In a year or two my father will forgive me, 
and meanwhile you shall have every luxury money can 
purchase, and every charm that love can devise to make your 
life happy. After all, my mother was but a factory girl.” 
(This was said to himself, as if to reconcile himself to this 
bold step.) “ Now, Mary, you see how wilUng I am to — to 
sacrifice a good deal for you ; I even offer you marriage, to 
satisfy your little ambitious heart ; so now, won’t you say, 
you can love me a little, little bit ? ” 

He pulled her towards him. To his surprise, she still 
resisted. Yes ! though all she had pictured to herself for so 
many months in being the wife of Mr. Carson was now within 
her grasp, she resisted. His speech had given her but one 
feeling, that of exceeding great relief. For she had dreaded, 
now she knew what true love was, to think of the attach- 
ment she might have created ; the deep feeling her flirting 
conduct might have called out. She had loaded herself with 
reproaches for the misery she might have caused. It was a 
relief to gather that the attachment was of that low despic- 
able kind which can plan to seduce the object of its affection ; 
that the feeling she had caused was shallow enough, for it 
only pretended to embrace self, at the expense of the misery, 
the ruin, of one falsely termed beloved. She need not be 
penitent to such a plotter ! that was the relief. 

“lam obliged to you, sir, for telling me what you have. 
You may think I am a fool ; but I did think you meant to 
marry me all along ; and yet, thinking so, I felt I could not 
love you. Still I felt sorry I had gone so far in keeping 
company with you. Now, sir, I tell you, if I had loved you 
before, I don’t think I should have loved you now you have 
told me you meant to ruin me ; for that’s the plain English 
of not meaning to inarry me till just this minute. I said I 

157 


Mary Barton 

was sorry-, and humbly begged your pardon ; that was before 
I knew wbat you were. Now I scorn you, sb:, for j^otting 
to ruba a poor girl. Good-night.” 

And with a wrench, for which she had reserved all her 
strength, she flew off like a bolt. They heard her flying 
footsteps echo down the quiet street. The next sound was 
Sally’s laugh, which grated on Mr. Carson’s ears, and keenly 
irritated him. 

“ And what do you find so amusing, Sally ? ” asked he. 

“ Oh, sir, I beg your pardon. I humbly beg your pardon, 
as Mary says, but I can’t help laughing to think how she’s 
outwitted us.” (She was going to have said, “ outwitted 
you,” but changed the pronoun.) 

“ Why, Sally, had you any idea she was going to fly out 
in this style ? ” 

“ No, I hadn’t, to be sure. But if you did think of marry- 
ing her, why (if I may be so bold as to ask) did you go and 
tell her you had thought of doing otherwise by her ? That 
was what put her up at last ! ” 

“ Why, I had repeatedly before led her to infer that 
marriage was not my object. I never dreamed she could 
have been so foolish as to have mistaken me, little provoking 
romancer though she be ! So I naturally wished her to 
know what a sacrifice of prejudice, of — of myself, in short, I 
was willing to make for her sake ; yet I don’t think she was 
aware of it after all. I believe I might have any lady in 
Manchester if I liked, and yet I was willing and ready to 
marry a poor dressmaker. Don’t you understand me now ? 
and don’t you see what a sacrifice I was making to humour 
her? and all to no avail.” 

Sally was silent, so he went on — 

“ My father would have forgiven any temporary con- 
nection, far sooner than my marrying one so far beneath me 
in rank.” 

“ I thought you said, sir, your mother was a factory girl,” 
remarked Sally rather mahciously. 

“ Yes, yes ! — but then my father was in much such a 

158 


old Alice’s Bairn 

station; at any rate, there was not the disparity there is 
between Mary and me.” 

Another pause. 

“ Then you mean to give her up, sir ? She made no 
bones of saying she gave you up.” 

“ No ; I do not mean to give her up, whatever you and 
she may please to think. I am more in love with her than 
ever; even for this charming, capricious ebullition of hers. 
She’ll come round, you may depend upon it. Women always 
do. They always have second thoughts, and find out that 
they are best in casting off a lover. Mind, I don’t say I 
shall offer her the same terms again.” 

With a few more words of no importance, the allies 
parted. 


CHAPTER XII ^ 

OLD Alice’s bairn 

“ I lov’d him not ; and yet, now he is gone, 

I feel I am alone. 

I check’d him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, 

Alas 1 I would not check. 

For reasons not to love him once I sought. 

And wearied all my thought.” 

W. S. Landob. 

And now Mary had, as she thought, dismissed both her 
lovers. But they looked on their dismissals with very 
different eyes. He who loved her with all his heart and with 
all his soul, considered his rejection final. He did not com- 
fort himself with the idea, which would have proved so well 
founded in his case, that women have second thoughts about 
casting off their lovers. He had too much respect for his 
own heartiness of love to believe himself unworthy of Mary ; 

159 


Mary Barton 

that mock humble conceit did not enter his head. He thought 
he did not “ hit Mary’s fancy; ” and though that may sound 
a trivial every-day expression, yet the reahty of it cut him to 
the heart. Wild visions of enlistment, of drinking himself 
into forgetfulness, of becoming desperate in some way or 
another, entered his mind ; but then the thought of his mother 
stood like an angel with a drawn sword in the way to sin. 
For, you know, “ he was the only son of his mother, and she 
was a widow;” dependent on him for daily bread. So he 
could not squander away health and time, which were to him 
money wherewith to support her fading years. He went to 
his work, accordingly, to all outward semblance just as usual ; 
but with a heavy, heavy heart within. 

Mr. Carson, as we have seen, persevered in considering 
Mary’s rejection of him as merely a “ charming caprice.” If 
she were at work, Sally Leadbitter was sure to slip a passion- 
ately loving note into her hand, and then so skilfully move 
away from her side, that Mary could not all at once return 
it, without making some sensation among the workwomen. 
She was even forced to take several home with her. But 
after reading one, she determined on her plan. She made no 
great resistance to receiving them from Sally, but kept them 
unopened, and occasionally returned them in a blank, half- 
sheet of paper. But far worse than this, was the being so 
constantly waylaid as she went home by her persevering 
lover ; who had been so long acquainted with all her habits, 
that she found it difficult to evade him. Late or early, she 
was never certain of being free from him. Go this way or 
that, he might come up some cross street when she had just 
congratulated herself on evading him for that day. He 
could not have taken a surer mode of making himself odious 
to her. 

And all this time Jem Wilson never came ! Not to see 
her — that she did not expect — but to see her father ; to — she 
did not know what, but she had hoped he would have come 
on some excuse, just to see if she hadn’t changed her mind. 
He never came. Then she grew weary and impatient, and 

i6o 


old Alice’s Bairn 

her spirits sank. The persecution of the one lover, and the 
neglect of the other, oppressed her sorely. She could not 
now sit quietly through the evening at her work ; or, if- she 
kept, by a strong effort, from pacing up and down the room, 
she felt as if she must sing to keep off thought while she 
sewed. And her songs were the maddest, merriest, she 
could think of. “ Barbara Allen,” and such sorrowful ditties, 
did well enough for happy times ; but now she required all 
the aid that could be derived from external excitement to keep 
down the impulse of grief. 

And her father, too — he was a great anxiety to her, he 
looked so changed and so ill. Yet he would not acknowledge 
to any ailment. She knew, that be it as late as it would, she 
never left off work until (if the poor servants paid her pretty 
regularly for the odd jobs of mending she did for them) she 
had earned a few pence, enough for one good meal for her 
father on the next day. But very frequently all she could 
do in the morning, after her late sitting up at night, was to 
run with the work home, and receive the money from the 
person for whom it was done. She could not stay often to 
make purchases of food, but gave up the money at once to 
her father’s eager clutch ; sometimes prompted by a savage 
hunger it is true, but more frequently by a craving for opium. 

On the whole he was not so hungry as his daughter. For 
it was a long fast from the one o’clock dinner hour at Miss 
Simmonds’ to the close of Mary’s vigil, which was often ex- 
tended to midnight. She was young, and had not yet learned 
to bear “ clemming.” 

One evening, as she sang a merry song over her work, 
stopping occasionally to sigh, the blind Margaret came 
groping in. It had been one of Mary’s additional sorrows 
that her friend had been absent from home, accompanying 
the lecturer on music in his round among the manufacturing 
towns of Yorkshire and Lancashire. Her grandfather, too, 
had seen this to be a good time for going his expeditions in 
search of specimens ; so that the house had been shut up for 
several weeks. 

i6i 


M 


Mary Barton 

“ 0 Margaret, Margaret ! how glad I am to see you. 
Take care. There, now, you’re all right, that’s father’s chair. 
Sit down.” — She kissed her over and over again. 

“ It seems hke the beginning o’ brighter times, to see you 
again, Margaret. Bless you ! And how well you look ! ” 

“ Doctors always send ailing folk for change of air : and 
you know I’ve had plenty o’ that same lately.” 

“ You’ve been quite a traveller for sure ! Tell us all 
about it, do, Margaret. Where have you been to, first 
place ? ” 

“ Eh, lass, that would take a long time to tell. Half o’er 
the world I sometimes think. Bolton and Bury, and Owdham, 
and Halifax, and — but Mary, guess who I saw there ? Maybe 
you know though, so it’s not fair guessing.” 

“ No, I dunnot. Tell me, Margaret, for I cannot abide 
waiting and guessing.” 

“ Well, one night as I were going fra’ my lodgings wi’ the 
help on a lad as belonged to th’ landlady, to find the room 
where I were to sing, I heard a cough before me, walking 
along. Thinks I, that’s Jem Wilson’s cough, or I’m much 
mistaken. Next time came a sneeze and cough, and then I 
were certain. First I hesitated whether I should speak, 
thinking if it were a stranger he’d maybe think me forrard.* 
But I knew blind folks must not be nesh about using their 
tongues, so says I, ‘Jem Wilson, is that you?’ And sure 
enough it was, and nobody else. Did you know he were in 
Halifax, Mary?” 

“No,” she answered, faintly and sadly; for Halifax was 
all the same to her heart as the Antipodes ; equally inacces- 
sible by humble penitent looks and maidenly tokens of 
love. 

“ Well, he’s there, however : he’s putting up an engine 
for some folks there, for his master. He’s doing well, for 
he’s getten four or five men under him ; we’d two or three 
meetings, and he telled me all about his invention for doing 
away wi’ the crank, or somewhat. His master’s bought it 

* “ Forrard,” forward. 

162 


Old Alice’s Bairn 

from him, and ta’en out a patent, and Jem’s a gentleman for 
life wi’ the money his master gied him. But you’ll ha heard 
all this, Mary ? ” 

No ! she had not. 

“ Well, I thought it all happened afore he left Manchester, 
and then in course you’d ha’ known. But maybe it were all 
settled after he got to Halifax ; however, he’s gotten two or 
three hunder pounds for his invention. But what’s up with 
you, Mary ? you’re sadly out of sorts. You’ve never been 
quarrelling wi’ Jem, surely? ” 

Now Mary cried outright; she was weak in body, and 
unhappy in mind, and the time was come when she might 
have the relief of telling her grief. She could not bring 
herself to confess how much of her sorrow was caused by 
her having been vain and foolish ; she hoped that need never 
be known, and she could not bear to think of it. 

“ 0 Margaret ; do you know Jem came here one night 
when I were put out, and cross. Oh, dear ! dear ! I could 
bite my tongue out when I think on it. And he told me how 
he loved me, and I thought I did not love him, and I told 
him I didn’t; and, Margaret, — he believed me, and went 
away so sad, and so angry ; and now, I’d do anything, — I 
would indeed,” her sobs choked the end of her sentence. 
Margaret looked at her with sorrow, but with hope ; for she 
had no doubt in her own mind, that it was only a temporary 
estrangement. 

“ Tell me, Margaret,” said Mary, taking her apron down 
from her eyes, and looking at Margaret with eager anxiety, 
“ What can I do to bring him back to me ? Should I write 
to him ? ” 

“ No,” replied her friend, “ that would not do. Men are 
so queer, they like to ha’ the courting to themselves.” 

“ But I did not mean to write him a courting letter,” said 
Mary, somewhat indignantly. 

“ If you wrote at all, it would be to give him a hint you’d 
taken the rue, and would be very glad to have him now. I 
believe now he’d rather find that cut himself.” 


Mary Barton 

“ But he won’t try,” said Mary, sighing. “ How can he 
find it out when he’s at Halifax ? ” 

“If he’s a will he’s a way, depend upon it. And you 
would not have him if he’s not a will to you, Mary! No, 
dear ! ” changing her tone from the somewhat hard way in 
which sensible people too often speak, to the soft accents of 
tenderness which come with such peculiar grace from them, 
“ you must just wait and be patient. You may depend upon 
it, all will end well, and better than if you meddled in it 
now.” 

“ But it’s so hard to be patient,” pleaded Mary. 

“ Ay, dear : being patient is the hardest work we, any on 
us, have to go through fife, I take it. Waiting is far more 
difficult than doing. I’ve known that about my sight, and 
many a one has knovm it in watching the sick ; but it’s one 
of God’s lessons we all must learn, one way or another.” 
After a pause — “ Have ye been to see his mother of late ? ” 

“ No ; not for some weeks. When last I went she was 
so frabbit* with me, that I really thought she wished I’d 
keep away.” 

“ Well 1 if I were you I’d go. Jem will hear on’t, and it 
will do you far more good in his mind than writing a letter, 
which, after all, you would find a tough piece of work when 
you came to settle to it. ’Twould be hard to say neither too 
much nor too httle. But I must be going, grandfather is at 
home, and it’s our first night together, and he must not be 
sitting wanting me any longer.” 

She rose up from her seat, but still delayed going. 

“ Mary 1 I’ve somewhat else I want to say to you, and I 
don’t rightly know how to begin. You see, grandfather and 
I know what bad times is, and we know your father is out of 
work, and I’m getting more money than I can well manage ; 
and dear, would you just take this bit o’ gold, and pay 
me back in good times.” The tears stood in Margaret’s eyes 
as she spoke. 

“Dear Margaret, we’re not so bad pressed as that.” 

* “ Frabbit,” ill-tempered. 

164 


Old Alice’s Bairn 

(The thought of her father and his ill looks, and his one 
meal a day, rushed upon Mary.) “And yet, dear, if it 
would not put you out o’ your way — I would work hard 
to make it up to you ; — but would not your grandfather 
be vexed ? ” 

“ Not he, wench ! It were more his thought than mine, 
and we have gotten ever so many more at home, so don’t 
hurry yourself about paying. It’s hard to be blind, to be 
sure, else money comes in so easily now to what it used 
to do ; and it’s downright pleasure to earn it, for I do so 
like singing.’’ 

“ I wish I could sing,’’ said Mary, looking at the 
sovereign. 

“ Some has one kind of gifts, and some another. Many’s 
the time when I could see, that I longed for your beauty, 
Mary ! We’re like childer, ever wanting what we ban not 
got. But now I must say just one more word. Eemember, 
if you’re sore pressed for money, we shall take it very 
unkind if you donnot let us know. Good-bye to ye.” 

In spite of her blindness she hurried away, anxious 
to rejoin her grandfather, and desirous also to escape from 
Mary’s expressions of gratitude. 

Her visit had done Mary good in many ways. It had 
strengthened her patience and her hope; it had given her 
confidence in Margaret’s sympathy; and last, and really 
least in comforting power (of so little value are silver and 
gold in comparison to love, that gift in every one’s power to 
bestow), came the consciousness of the money- value of the 
sovereign she held in her hand. The many things it might 
purchase ! First of all came the thought of the comfortable 
supper for her father that very night ; and acting instantly 
upon the idea, she set off in hopes that all the provision 
shops might not yet be closed, although it was so late. 

That night the cottage shone with unusual light and fire 
gleam ; and the father and daughter sat down to a meal they 
thought almost extravagant. It was so long since they had 
had enough to eat. 

165 


Mary Barton 

“ Food gives heart,” say the Lancashire people ; and the 
next day Mary made time to go and call on Mrs. Wilson 
according to Margaret’s advice. She found her quite alone, 
and more gracious than she had been the last time Mary had 
visited her. Alice was gone out, she said. 

“ She would just step up to the post-office, all for 
no earthly use. For it were to ask if they hadn’t a letter 
lying there for her from her foster-son. Will Wilson, the 
sailor-lad.” 

“What made her think there were a letter?” asked 
Mary. 

“ Why, yo see, a neighbour as has been in Liverpool, 
lelled us Will’s ship were come in. Now he said last time 
he were in Liverpool, he’d ha’ come to ha’ seen Alice, but his 
ship had but a week holiday, and hard work for the men in 
that time, too. So Alice makes sure he’ll come this, and has 
had her hand behind her ear at every noise in th’ street, 
thinking it were him. And to-day she were neither to have 
nor to hold, but off she would go to th’ post, and see if he 
had na sent her a line to th’ old house near yo. I tried 
to get her to give up going, for let alone her deafness she’s 
getten so dark, she cannot see five yards afore her; but 
no, she would go, poor old body.” 

“ I did not know her sight failed her ; she used to have 
good eyes enough when she lived near us.” 

“ Ay, but it’s gone lately a good deal. But you never ask 
after Jem ” — anxious to get in a word on the subject nearest 
her heart. 

“No,” replied Mary, blushing scarlet. “ How is he ? ” 

“ I cannot justly say how he is, seeing he’s at Halifax ; 
but he were very well when he wrote last Tuesday. Han ye 
heard o’ his good luck ? ” 

Bather to her disappointment, Mary owned she had 
heard of the sum his master had paid him for his invention. 

“ Well I and did not Margaret tell you what he’d done 
wi’ it ? It’s just like him, though, ne’er to say a word about 
it. Why, when he were paid, what does he do but get his 

i66 


old Alice’s Bairn 

master to help him to buy an income for me and Alice. He 
had her name put down for her life ; but, poor thing, shell 
not be long to the fore, I’m thinking. She’s sadly failed 
of late. And so, Mary, yo see, we’re two ladies o’ property. 
It’s a matter o’ twenty pound a year, they tell me. I wish 
the twins had lived, bless ’em,” said she, dropping a few 
tears. “ They should ha’ had the best o’ schooling, and 
their bellyfuls o’ food. I suppose they’re better off in 
heaven, only I should so like to see ’em.” 

Mary’s heart filled with love at this new proof of Jem’s 
goodness ; but she could not talk about it. She took Jane 
Wilson’s hand, and pressed it with affection; and then 
turned the subject to Will, her sailor nephew. Jane was a 
little bit sorry, but her prosperity had made her gentler, and 
she did not resent what she felt at Mary’s indifference to 
Jem and his merits. 

“ He’s been in Africa, and that neighbourhood, I believe. 
He’s a fine chap, but he’s not gotten Jem’s hair. His has 
too much o’ the red in it. He sent Alice (but, maybe, she 
tolled you) a matter o’ five pound when he were over before ; 
but that were nought to an income, yo know.” 

“ It’s not every one that can get a hundred or two at a 
time,” said Mary. 

“ No ! no ! that’s true enough. There’s not many a one 
like Jem. That’s Alice’s step,” said she, hastening to open 
the door to her sister-in-law. Alice looked weary, and sad, 
and dusty. The weariness and the dust would not have been 
noticed either by her, or the others, if it had not been for the 
sadness. 

“No letters ? ” said Mrs. Wilson. 

“No, none ! I must just wait another day to hear fra’ 
my lad. It’s very dree work, waiting,” said Alice. 

Margaret’s words came into Mary’s mind. Every one 
has their time and kind of waiting. 

“ If I but knew he were safe, and not drowned ! ” spoke 
Alice. “ If I but knew he were drowned, I would ask grace 
to say. Thy will be done. It’s the waiting.” 

167 


Mary Barton 

“ It’s hard work to be patient to all of us,” said Mary ; 
“ I know I find it so, but I did not know one so good as 
you did, Alice; I shall not think so badly of myself for 
being a bit impatient, now I’ve heard you say you find it 
difficult.” 

The idea of reproach to Alice was the last in Mary’s 
mind ; and Alice knew it was. Nevertheless, she said- — 

“ Then, my dear, I beg your pardon, and God’s pardon, 
too, if I’ve weakened your faith, by showing you how feeble 
mine was. Half our life’s spent in waiting, and it ill becomes 
one like me, wi’ so many mercies, to grumble. I’ll try and 
put a bridle o’er my tongue, and my thoughts too.” She 
spoke in a humble and gentle voice, like one asking 
forgiveness. 

“ Gome, Alice,” interposed Mrs. Wilson, “ don’t fret 
yoursel for e’er a trifle wrong said here or there. See ! I’ve 
put th’ kettle on, and you and Mary shall ha’ a dish o’ tea 
in no time.” 

So she bustled about, and brought out a comfortable- 
looking substantial loaf, and set Mary to cut bread and 
butter, while she rattled out the tea-cups — always a cheerful 
sound. 

Just as they were sitting down, there was a knock heard 
at the door, and without waiting for it to be opened from the 
inside, some one lifted the latch, and in a man’s voice asked, 
if one George Wilson lived there ? 

Mrs. Wilson was entering on a long and sorrowful 
explanation of his having once lived there, but of his having 
dropped down dead; when AHce, with the instinct of love 
(for in all usual and common instances sight and hearing 
failed to convey impressions to her until long after other 
people had received them), arose, and tottered to the door. 

“ My bairn 1 — my own dear bairn ! ” she exclaimed, falling 
on Will Wilson’s neck. 

You may fancy the hospitable and welcoming commotion 
that ensued; how Mrs. Wilson laughed, and talked, and 
cried, all together, if such a thing can be done; and how 

1 68 


old Alice’s Bairn 

Mary gazed with wondering pleasure at her old playmate ; 
now a dashing, bronzed-looking, ringleted sailor, frank, and 
hearty, and affectionate. 

But it was something different from common to see 
Alice’s joy at once more having her foster-child with her. 
She did not speak, for she really could not ; but the tears 
came coursing down her old withered cheeks, and dimmed 
the horn spectacles she had put on, in order to pry lovingly 
into his face. So what with her failing sight, and her tear- 
blinded eyes, she gave up the attempt of learning his face by 
heart through the medium of that sense, and tried another. 
She passed her sodden, shrivelled hands, all trembling with 
eagerness, over his manly face, bent meekly down in order 
that she might more easily make her strange inspection. At 
last, her soul was satisfied. 

After tea, Mary feeling sure there was much to be said 
on both sides, at which it would be better none should be 
present, not even an intimate friend like herself, got up to 
go away. This seemed to arouse Alice from her dreamy 
consciousness of exceeding happiness, and she hastily fol- 
lowed Mary to the door. There, standing outside, with the 
latch in her hand, she took hold of Mary’s arm, and spoke 
nearly the first words she had uttered since her nephew’s 
return. 

“ My dear ! I shall never forgive mysel, if my wicked 
words to-night are any stumbling-block in your path. See 
how the Lord has put coals of fire on my head ! O Mary, 
don’t let my being an unbelieving Thomas weaken your 
faith. Wait patiently on the Lord, whatever your trouble 
may be.” 


169 


Mary Barton 


CHAPTER XIII 

A traveller’s tales 

“ The mermaid sat upon the rocks 
All day long, 

Admiring her beauty and combing her locks 
And singing a mermaid song. 

And hear the mermaid’s song you may, 

As sure as sure can be, 

If you will but follow the sun all day. 

And souse with him into the sea.” 

W. S. Landor. 

It was perhaps four or five days after the events mentioned 
in the last chapter, that one evening, as Mary stood lost in 
reverie at the window, she saw Will Wilson enter the court, 
and come quickly up to her door. She was glad to see him, 
for he had always been a friend of hers, perhaps too much 
like her in character ever to become anything nearer or 
dearer. She opened the door in readiness to receive his 
frank greeting, which she as frankly returned. 

“ Come, Mary ! on with bonnet and shawl, or whatever 
rigging you women require before leaving the house. I’m 
sent to fetch you, and I can’t lose time when I’m under 
orders.” 

“ Where am I to go to ? ” asked Mary, as her heart leaped 
up at the thought of who might be waiting for her. 

“ Not very far,” replied he. “ Only to old Job Legh’s 
round the corner there. Aunt would have me come and see 
these new friends of hers, and then we meant to ha’ come 
on here to see you and your father, but the old gentleman 
seems inclined to make a night of it, and have you all there. 
Where is your father? I want to see him. He must 
come too.” 

“ He’s out, but I’ll leave word next door for him to follow 
170 


A Traveller’s Tales 

me ; that’s to say, if he comes home afore long.” She added 
hesitatingly, “ Is any one else at Job’s ? ” 

“ No ! My aunt Jane would not come, for some maggot 
or other ; and as for Jem ! I don’t know what you’ve all 
been doing to him, but he’s as down-hearted a chap as I’d 
wish to see. He’s had his sorrows sure enough, poor lad ! 
But it’s time for him to be shaking off his dull looks, and 
not go moping like a girl.” 

“ Then he’s come fra’ Halifax, is he ? ” asked Mary. 

“ Yes ! his body’s come, but I think he’s left his heart 
behind him. His tongue I’m sure he has, as we used to say 
to childer, when they would not speak. I try to rouse him 
up a bit, and I think he likes having me with him, but still 
he’s as gloomy and as dull as can be. ’Twas only yesterday 
he took me to the works, and you’d ha’ thought us two 
Quakers as the spirit hadn’t moved, all the way down we 
were so mum. It’s a place to craze a man, certainly; such 
a noisy black hole ! There were one or two things worth 
looking at, the bellows for instance, or the gale they called 
a bellows. I could ha’ stood near it a whole day; and if 
I’d a berth in that place, I should like to be bellows-man, 
if there is such a one. But Jem weren’t diverted even with 
that ; he stood as grave as a judge while it blew my hat out 
o’ my hand. He’s lost all relish for his food, too, which frets 
my aunt sadly. Come ! Mary, ar’n’t you ready ? ” 

She had not been able to gather if she were to see Jem 
at Job Legh’s ; but when the door was opened, she at once 
saw and felt he was not there. The evening then would be 
a blank ; at least so she thought for the first five minutes ; 
but she soon forgot her disappointment in the cheerful meet- 
ing of old friends, all, except herself, with some cause for 
rejoicing at that very time. Margaret, who could not be 
idle, was knitting away, with her face looking full into the 
room, away from her work. Alice sat meek and patient 
with her dimmed eyes and gentle look, trying to see and 
to hear, but never complaining; indeed,' in her inner self 
she was blessing God for her happiness; for the joy of 

171 


Mary Barton 

having her nephew, her child, near her, was far more 
present to her mind, than her deprivations of sight and 
hearing. 

Job was in the full glory of host and hostess too, for by 
a tacit agreement he had roused himself from his habitual 
abstraction, and had assumed many of Margaret’s little 
household duties. While he moved about he was deep in 
conversation with the young sailor, trying to extract from 
him any circumstances connected with the natural history 
of the different countries he had visited. 

“ Oh ! if you are fond of grubs, and flies, and beetles, 
there’s no place for ’em like Sierra Leone. I wish you’d 
had some of ours ; we had rather too much of a good thing ; 
we drank them with our drink, and could scarcely keep from 
eating them with our food. I never thought any folk could 
care for such fat green beasts as those, or I would ha’ brought 
you them by the thousand. A plate full o’ peas soup would 
ha’ been full enough for you, I dare say ; it were often too 
full for us.” 

“I would ha’ given a good deal for some on ’em,” 
said Job. 

“ Well, I knew folk at home liked some o’ the queer 
things one meets with abroad ; but I never thought they’d 
care for them nasty slimy things. I were always on the 
look-out for a mermaid, for that, I knew, were a curiosity.” 

“You might ha’ looked long enough,” said Job, in an 
undertone of contempt, which, however, the quick ears of 
the sailor caught. 

“ Not so long, master, in some latitudes, as you think. 
It stands to reason th’ sea hereabouts is too cold for 
mermaids ; for women here don’t go half naked on account 
o’ climate. But I’ve been in lands where muslin were too 
hot to wear on land, and where the sea were more than 
milk- warm ; and though I’d never the good luck to see a 
mermaid in that latitude I know them that has.” 

“ Do tell us about it,” cried Mary. 

“ Pooh, pooh ! ” said Job, the naturalist. 

172 


A Traveller’s Tales 

Both speeches determined Will to go on with his story. 
What could a fellow who had never been many miles from 
home know about the wonders of the deep, that he should 
put him down in that way ? 

“ Well, it were Jack Harris, our third mate last voyage, 
as many and many a time telled us all about it. You see 
he were becalmed off Chatham Island (that’s in the Great 
Pacific, and a warm enough latitude for mermaids, and 
sharks, and such like perils). So some of the men took the 
long-boat, and pulled for the island to see what it were like ; 
and when they got near, they heard a pufi&ng, like a creature 
come up to take breath ; you’ve never heard a diver ? No ! 
Well ; you’ve heard folks in th’ asthma, and it were for all 
the world like that. So they looked around, and what should 
they see but a mermaid, sitting on a rock, and sunning her- 
self. The water is always warmer when it’s rough, you 
know, so I suppose in the calm she felt it rather chilly, and 
had come up to warm herself.” 

“ What was she like? ” asked Mary breathlessly. 

Job took his pipe off the chimney-piece, and began to 
smoke with very audible puffs, as if the story were not worth 
listening to. 

“ Oh ! Jack used to say she was for all the world as 
beautiful as any of the wax ladies in the barbers’ shops; 
only, Mary, there were one little difference; her hair was 
bright grass green.” 

“I should not think that was pretty,” said Mary hesi- 
tatingly ; as if not liking to doubt the perfection of anything 
belonging to such an acknowledged beauty. 

“ Oh ! but it is when you’re used to it. I always think 
when first we get sight of land, there’s no colour so lovely 
as grass green. However, she had green hair sure enough : 
and were proud enough of it, too ; for she were combing it 
out full length when first they saw her. They all thought 
she were a fair prize, and maybe as good as a whale in ready 
money (they were whale-fishers, you know). For some folk 
think a deal of mermaids, whatever other folk do.” This 

173 


Mary Barton 

was a hit at Job, who retaliated in a series of sonorous 
spittings and puffs. 

“ So, as I were saying, they pulled towards her, thinking 
to catch her. She were all the while combing her beautiful 
hair, and beckoning to them, while with the other hand she 
held a looking-glass.” 

“ How many hands had she ? ” asked Job. 

“ Two, to be sure, just like any other woman,” answered 
Will indignantly. 

“ Oh ! I thought you said she beckoned with one hand, 
and combed her hair with another, and held a looking-glass 
with her third,” said Job, with provoking quietness. 

“ No ! I didn’t ! at least, if I did, I meant she did one 
thing after another, as any one but ” (here he mumbled a 
word or two) “ could understand. Well, Mary,” turning 
very decidedly towards her, “when she saw them coming 
near, whether it were she grew frightened at their fowling- 
pieces, as they had on board for a bit o’ shooting on the 
island, or whether it were she were just a fickle jade as did 
not rightly know her own mind (which, seeing one half of 
her was woman, I think myself was most probable), but 
when they were only about two oars’ length from the rock 
where she sat, down she plopped into the water, leaving 
nothing but her hinder end of a fish tail sticking up for a 
minute, and then that disappeared too.” 

“ And did they never see her again ? ” asked Mary. 

“Never so plain; the man who had the second watch 
one night declared he saw her swimming round the ship, 
and holding up her glass for him to look in ; and then he 
saw the little cottage near Aber in Wales (where his wife 
lived) as plain as ever he saw it in life, and his wife standing 
outside, shading her eyes as if she were looking for him. 
But Jack Harris gave him no credit, for he said he were 
always a bit of a romancer, and beside that, were a home- 
sick, down-hearted chap.” 

“ I wish they had caught her,” said Mary, musing. 

“ They got one thing as belonged to her,” replied Will, 

174 


A Traveller’s Tales 

“ and that I’ve often seen with my own eyes, and I reckon 
it’s a sure proof of the truth of their story, for them that 
wants proof.” 

“ What was it ? ” asked Margaret, almost anxious her 
grandfather should be convinced. 

“ Why, in her hurry she left her comb on the rock, and 
one o’ the men spied it ; so they thought that were better 
than nothing, and they rowed there and took it, and Jack 
Harris had it on board the John CroppeVy and I saw him 
comb his hair with it every Sunday morning.” 

“ What was it like ? ” asked Mary eagerly ; her imagina- 
tion running on coral combs, studded with pearls. 

“ Why, if it had not had such a strange yarn belonging 
to it, you’d never ha’ noticed it from any other small-tooth 
comb.” 

“ I should rather think not,” sneered Job Legh. 

The sailor bit his lips to keep down his anger against an 
old man. Margaret felt very uneasy, knowing her grand- 
father so well, and not daring to guess what caustic remark 
might come next to irritate the young sailor guest. 

Mary, however, was too much interested by the wonders 
of the deep to perceive the incredulity with which Job Legh 
received Wilson’s account of the mermaid, and when he left 
off, half offended, and very much inclined not to open his 
lips again through the evening, she eagerly said — 

“ Oh, do tell us something more of what you hear and 
see on board ship. Do, Will ! ” 

“ What’s the use, Mary, if folk won’t believe one. There 
are things I saw with my own eyes, that some people would 
pish and pshaw at, as if I were a baby to be put down by 
cross noises. But I’ll tell you, Mary,” with an emphasis on 
ymiy “ some more of the wonders of the sea, sin’ you’re not 
too wise to believe me. I have seen a fish fly.” 

This did stagger Mary. She had heard of mermaids as 
signs of inns and as sea-wonders, but never of flying fish. 
Not so Job. He put down his pipe, and nodding his head 
as a token of approbation, he said — 

175 


Mary Barton 

Ay ! ay ! young man. Now you’re speaking truth.” 

“ Well, now, you’ll swallow that, old gentleman. You’ll 
credit me when I say I’ve seen a critter half fish, half bird, 
and you won’t credit me when I say there he such beasts 
as mermaids, half fish, half woman. To me, one’s just as 
strange as t’other.” 

“ You never saw the mermaid yoursel,” interposed 
Margaret gently. But “ love me, love my dog,” was Will 
Wilson’s motto, only his version was, “ Believe me, believe 
Jack Harris ; ” and the remark was not so soothing to him 
as it was intended to have been. 

“ It’s the Exocetus ; one of the Malacopterygii Abdomi- 
nales,” said Job, much interested. 

“ Ay, there you go ! You’re one o’ them folks as never 
knows beasts unless they’re called out o’ their names. Put 
’em in Sunday clothes, and you know ’em, but in their 
work-a-day English you never know nought about ’em. I’ve 
met wi’ many o’ your kidney ; and if I’d ha’ known it, I’d 
ha’ christened poor Jack’s mermaid wi’ some grand gibberish 
of a name. Mermaidicus Jack Harrisensis ; that’s just like 
their new-fangled words. D’ye believe there’s such a thing 
as the Mermaidicus, master? ” asked Will, enjoying his own 
joke uncommonly, as most people do. 

“ Not I ! tell me about the — 

“ Well ! ” said Will, pleased at having excited the old 
gentleman’s faith and credit at last, “ it were on this last 
voyage, about a day’s sail from Madeira, that one of our 
men ” 

“Not Jack Harris, I hope,” murmured Job. 

“ Called me,” continued Will, not noticing the inter- 
ruption, “ to see the what d’ye call it — flying fish I say it is. 
It were twenty feet out o’ water, and it flew near on to a 
hundred yards. But I say, old gentleman, I ha’ gotten one 
dried, and if you’ll take it, why. I’ll give it you ; only,” he 
added, in a lower tone, “ I wish you’d just gie me credit for 
the Mermaidicus.” 

I really believe, if the assuming faith in the story of the 
176 


A Traveller’s Tales 

mermaid had been made the condition of receiving the flying 
fish, J oh Legh, sincere man as he was, would have pretended 
belief ; he was so much delighted at the idea of possessing 
this specimen. He won the sailor's heart by getting up to 
shake both his hands in his vehement gratitude, puzzling 
poor old Alice, who yet smiled through her wonder : for she 
understood the action to indicate some kindly feeling towards 
her nephew. 

Job wanted to prove his gratitude, and was puzzled how 
to do it. He feared the young man would not appreciate 
any of his duplicate Araneides ; not even the great American 
Mygale, one of his most precious treasures ; or else he would 
gladly have bestowed any duplicate on the donor of a real 
dried Exocetus. What could he do for him ? He could ask 
Margaret to sing. Other folks beside her old doating grand- 
father thought a deal of her songs. So Margaret began some 
of her noble old-fashioned songs. She knew no modern 
music (for which her auditors might have been thankful), 
but she poured her rich voice out in some of the old canzonets 
she had lately learnt while accompanying the musical lecturer 
on his tour. 

Mary was amused to see how the young sailor sat 
entranced; mouth, eyes, all open, in order to catch every 
breath of sound. His very lids refused to wink, as if afraid 
in that brief proverbial interval to lose a particle of the rich 
music that floated through the room. For the first time the 
idea crossed Mary’s mind that it was possible the plain little 
sensible Margaret, so prim and demure, might have power 
over the heart of the handsome, dashing, spirited Will 
Wilson. 

Job, too, was rapidly changing his opinion of his new 
guest. The flying fish went a great way, and his undis- 
guised admiration for Margaret’s singing carried him still 
further. 

It was amusing enough to see these two, within the hour 
so barely civil to each other, endeavouring now to be ultra- 
agreeable. Will, as soon as he had taken breath (a long, 

177 N 


Mary Barton 

deep gasp of admiration) after Margaret’s song, sidled up to 
Job, and asked him in a sort of doubting tone — 

“ You wouldn’t like a live Manx cat, would ye, master ? ” 

“ A what ? ” exclaimed Job. 

“ I don’t know its best name,” said Will humbly. “ But 
we call ’em just Manx cats. They’re cats without tails.” 

Now Job, in all his natural history, had never heard of 
such animals ; so Will continued — 

“ Because I’m going, afore joining my ship, to see mother’s 
friends in the island, and would gladly bring you one, if so 
be you’d like to have it. They look as queer and out o’ 
nature as flying fish, or ” — he gulped the words down that 
should have followed. “ Especially when you see ’em walk- 
ing a roof-top, right again the sky, when a cat, as is a proper 
cat, is sure to stick her tail stiff out behind, like a slack rope 
dancer a-balancing; but these cats having no tail, cannot 
stick it out, which captivates some people uncommonly. If 
yo’ll allow me. I’ll bring one for Miss there,” jerking his 
head at Margaret. Job assented with grateful curiosity, 
wishing much to see the tailless phenomenon. 

“ When are you going to sail ? ” asked Mary. 

“ I cannot justly say ; our ship’s bound for America next 
voyage, they tell me. A messmate will let me know when 
her saihng-day is fixed ; but I’ve got to go to th’ Isle o’ Man 
first. I promised uncle last time I were in England to go 
this next time. I may have to hoist the blue Peter any day ; 
so, make much of me while you have me, Mary.” 

Job asked him if he had been in America. 

“ Haven’t I ? North and South both ! This time we’re 
bound to North. Yankee-Land as we call it, where Uncle 
Sam lives.” 

“ Uncle who ? ” said Mary. 

“ Oh, it’s a way sailors have of speaking. I only mean 
I’m going to Boston, U.S., that’s Uncle Sam.” 

Mary did not understand, so she left him and went to sit 
by Alice, who could not hear conversation unless expressly 
addressed to her. She had sat patiently silent the greater 

178 


A Traveller’s Tales 

part of the night, and now greeted Mary with a quiet 
smile. 

“ Where’s yo’r father ? ” asked she. 

“ I guess he’s at his Union ! he’s there most evenings.” 

Alice shook her head ; but whether it were that she did 
not hear, or that she did not quite approve of what she heard, 
Mary could not make out. She sat silently watching Alice, 
and regretting over her dimmed and veiled eyes, formerly so 
bright and speaking. As if Alice understood by some other 
sense what was passing in Mary’s mind, she turned suddenly 
round, and answered Mary’s thought. 

“ Yo’re mourning for me, my dear ! and there’s no need, 
Mary. I’m as happy as a child. I sometimes think I am a 
child, whom the Lord is hushabying to my long sleep. For 
when I were a nurse-girl, my missis always telled me to 
speak very soft and low, and to darken the room that her 
little one might go to sleep ; and now all noises are hushed 
and still to me, and the bonny earth seems dim and dark, 
and I know it’s my Father lulling me away to my long sleep. 
I’m very well content, and yo mustn’t fret for me. I’ve had 
well-nigh every blessing in life I could desire.” 

Mary thought of Alice’s long-cherished, fond wish to 
revisit the home of her childhood, so often and often deferred, 
and now probably never to take place. Or if it did, how 
changed from the fond anticipation of what it was to 
have been ! It would be a mockery to the blind and deaf 
Alice. 

The evening came quickly to an end. There was the 
humble cheerful meal, and then the bustling, merry farewell, 
and Mary was once more in the quietness and solitude of her 
own dingy, dreary-looking home ; her father still out, the fire 
extinguished, and her evening’s task of work lying all undone 
upon the dresser. But it had been a pleasant little interlude 
to think upon. It had distracted her attention for a few 
hours from the pressure of many uneasy thoughts, of the 
dark, heavy, oppressive times, when sorrow and want seemed 
to surround her on every side ; of her father, his changed and 

J79 


Mary Barton 

altered looks, telling so plainly of broken health, and an em- 
bittered heart ; of the morrow, and the morrow beyond that, 
to be spent in that close monotonous workroom, with Sally 
Leadhitter’s odious whispers hissing in her ear ; and of the 
hunted look, so full of dread, from Miss Simmonds’ door-step 
up and down the street, lest her persecuting lover should be 
near ; for he lay in wait for her with wonderful perseverance, 
and of late had made himself almost hateful, by the unmanly 
force which he had used to detain her to listen to him, and 
the indifference with which he exposed her to the remarks of 
the passers-by, any one of whom might circulate reports 
which it would be terrible for her father to hear — and worse 
than death should they reach Jem Wilson. And all this she 
had drawn upon herself by her giddy flirting. Oh ! how she 
loathed the recollection of the hot summer evening, when, 
worn out by stitching and sewing, she had loitered home- 
wards with weary langour, and first listened to the voice of 
the tempter. 

And Jem Wilson ! O Jem, Jem, why did you not come 
to receive some of the modest looks and words of love which 
Mary longed to give you, to try and make up for the hasty 
rejection which you as hastily took to be final, though both 
mourned over it with many tears. But day after day passed 
away, and patience seemed of no avail ; and Mary’s cry was 
ever the old moan of the Moated Grange — 

“ ‘ Why comes he not,’ she said, 

‘ I am aweary, aweary. 

I would that I were dead.’ ” 


Jem’s Interview with Poor Esther 


CHAPTER XIV 

Jem’s interview with poor Esther 

Know the temptation ere you judge the crime 1 
Look on this tree — ’twas green, and fair and graceful ; 

Yet now, save these few shoots, how dry and rotten ! 

Thou canst not tell the cause. Not long ago, 

A neighbour oak, with which its roots were twined. 

In falling wrenched them with such cruel force. 

That though we covered them again with care. 

Its beauty withered, and it pined away. 

So, could we look into the human breast. 

How oft the fatal blight that meets our view. 

Should we trace down to the torn, bleeding fibres 
Of a too trusting heart — where it were shame. 

For pitying tears, to give contempt or blame.” 

“ Street Walks.” 

The month was over ; — the honeymoon to the newly-married; 
the exquisite convalescence to the “ living mother of a living 
child ; ” “ the first dark days of nothingness ” to the widow 
and the child bereaved ; the term of penance, of hard labour, 
and of solitary confinement, to the shrinking, shivering, 
hopeless prisoner. 

“ Sick, and in prison, and ye visited me.” Shall you, or 
I, receive such blessing ? I know one who will. An over- 
seer of a foundry, an aged man, with hoary hair, has spent 
his Sabbaths, for many years, in visiting the prisoners and 
the afilicted, in Manchester New Bailey ; not merely advis- 
ing, and comforting, but putting means into their power of 
regaining the virtue and the peace they had lost ; becoming 
himself their guarantee in obtaining employment, and never 
deserting those who have once asked help from him.* 

Esther’s term of imprisonment was ended. She received 
a good character in the governor’s books ; she had picked her 

* Vide Manchester Guardian of Wednesday, March 18, 1846 ; and 
also the Reports of Captain Williams, prison inspector. 

i8i 


Mary Barton 

daily quantity of oakum, had never deserved the extra punish- 
ment of the treadmill, and had been civil and decorous in her 
language. And once more she was out of prison. The door 
closed behind her with a ponderous clang, and in her desola- 
tion she felt as if shut out of home — from the only shelter 
she could meet with, houseless and penniless as she was, on 
that dreary day. 

But it was but for an instant that she stood there doubt- 
ing. One thought had haunted her both by night and by 
day, with monomaniacal incessancy ; and that thought was 
how to save Mary (her dead sister’s only child, her own little 
pet in the days of her innocence) from following in the same 
downward path to vice. To whom could she speak and ask 
for aid ? She shrank from the idea of addressing John Barton 
again ; her heart sank within her, at the remembrance of his 
fierce repulsing action, and far fiercer words. It seemed 
worse than death to reveal her condition to Mary, else she 
sometimes thought that this course would be the most terrible, 
the most efficient warning. She must speak; to that she 
was soul-compelled ; but to whom ? She dreaded addressing 
any of her former female acquaintance, even supposing they 
had sense, or spirit, or interest enough to undertake her 
mission. 

To whom shall the outcast prostitute tell her tale ? Who 
will give her help in the day of need ? Hers is the leper- sin, 
and all stand aloof dreading to be counted unclean. 

In her wild night wanderings, she had noted the haunts 
and habits of many a one who little thought of a watcher in 
the poor forsaken woman. You may easily imagine that a 
double interest was attached by her to the ways and com- 
panionships of those with whom she had been acquainted in 
the days which, when present, she had considered hardly- 
worked and monotonous, but which now in retrospection 
seemed so happy and unclouded. Accordingly, she had, as 
we have seen, known where to meet with John Barton on 
that unfortunate night, which had only produced irritation in 
him, and a month’s imprisonment to her. She had also 

182 


Jem’s Interview with Poor Esther 

observed that he was still intimate with the Wilsons. She 
had seen him walking and talking with both father and son ; 
her old friends too ; and she had shed unregarded, unvalued 
tears, when some one had casually told her of George Wilson’s 
sudden death. It now flashed across her mind that to the 
son, to Mary’s playfellow, her elder brother in the days of 
childhood, her tale might be told, and listened to with interest 
by him, and some mode of action suggested by which Mary 
might be guarded and saved. 

All these thoughts had passed through her mind while 
yet she was in prison; so when she was turned out, her 
purpose was clear, and she did not feel her desolation of 
freedom as she would otherwise have done. 

That night she stationed herself early near the foundry 
where she knew Jem worked; he stayed later than usual, 
being detained by some arrangements for the morrow. She 
grew tired and impatient ; many workmen had come out of 
the door in the long, dead, brick wall, and eagerly had she 
peered into their faces, deaf to all insult or curse. He must 
have gone home early ; one more turn in the street, and she 
would go. 

During that turn he came out, and in the quiet of that ‘ 
street of workshops and warehouses, she directly heard his 
steps. How her heart failed her for an instant ! but still she 
was not daunted from her purpose, painful as its fulfilment 
was sure to be. She laid her hand on his arm. As she 
expected, after a momentary glance at the person who thus 
endeavoured to detain him, he made an effort to shake it off, 
and pass on. But, trembling as she was, she had provided 
against this by a firm and unusual grasp. 

“You must listen to me, Jem Wilson,” she said, with 
almost an accent of command. 

“ Go away, missis ; I’ve nought to do with you, either in 
hearkening or talking.” 

He made another struggle. 

“ You must listen,” she said again, authoritatively, “ for 
Marv Barton’s sake.” 

183 


Mary Barton 

The spell of her name was as potent as that of the 
mariner’s glittering eye. “ He listened like a three-year 
child.” 

“ I know you care enough for her to wish to save her 
from harm.” 

He interrupted his earnest gaze into her face, with the 
exclamation — 

“ And who can yo be to know Mary Barton, or to know 
that she’s aught to me ? ” 

There was a little strife in Esther’s mind for an instant, 
between the shame of acknowledging herself, and the addi- 
tional weight to her revelation which such acknowledgment 
would give. Then she spoke — 

“ Do you remember Esther, the sister of John Barton’s 
wife ? the aunt to Mary ? And the valentine I sent you last 
February ten years ? ” 

“ Yes, I mind her well ! But yo are not Esther, are 
you ? ” He looked again into her face, and seeing that 
indeed it was his boyhood’s friend, he took her hand, and 
shook it with a cordiality that forgot the present in the 
past. 

“ Why, Esther ! Where han ye been this many a year ? 
Where han ye been wandering that we none of us could find 
you out ? ” 

The question was asked thoughtlessly, but answered with 
fierce earnestness. 

“ Where have I been ? What have I been doing ? Why 
do you torment me with questions like these ? Can you not 
guess ? But the story of my life is wanted to give force to 
my speech, afterwards I will tell it you. Nay! don’t change 
your fickle mind now, and say you don’t want to hear it. 
You must hear it, and I must tell it ; and then see after 
Mary, and take care she does not become like me. As she 
is loving now, so did I love once : one above me far.” She 
remarked not, in her own absorption, the change in Jem’s 
breathing, the sudden clutch at the wall which told the fear- 
fully vivid interest he took in what she said. “ He was so 

184 


Jem’s Interview with Poor Esther 

handsome, so kind! Well, the regiment was ordered to 
Chester (did I tell you he was an officer ?), and he could not 
bear to part from me, nor I from him, so he took me with 
him. I never thought poor Mary would have taken it so to 
heart I I always meant to send for her to pay me a visit 
when I was married ; for, mark you ! he promised me marriage. 
They all do. Then came three years of happiness. I sup- 
pose I ought not to have been happy, but I was. I had a 
little girl, too. Oh 1 the sweetest darling that ever was seen 1 
But I must not think of her,” putting her hand wildly up to 
her forehead, “ or I shall go mad; I shall.” 

“ Don’t tell me any more about yourself,” said Jem 
soothingly. 

“ What ! you’re tired already, are you ? but I will tell 
you ; as you’ve asked for it, you shall hear it. I won’t recall 
the agony of the past for nothing. I will have the relief of 
telling it. Oh, how happy I was ! ” — sinking her voice into a 
plaintive, childlike manner. “ It went like a shot through me 
when one day he came to me and told me he was ordered to 
Ireland, and must leave me behind ; at Bristol we then were.” 

Jem muttered some words ; she caught their meaning, 
and in a pleading voice continued — 

“ Oh, don’t abuse him ; don’t speak a word against him ! 
You don’t know how I love him yet ; yet, when I am sunk 
so low. You don’t guess how kind he was. He gave me 
fifty pounds before we parted, and I knew he could ill spare 
it. Don’t, Jem, please,” as his muttered indignation rose 
again. For her sake he ceased. “ I might have done better 
with the money ; I see now. But I did not know the value 
of it then. Formerly I had earned it easily enough at the 
factory, and as I had no more sensible wants, I spent it on 
dress and on eating. While I lived with him, I had it for 
asking ; and fifty pounds would, I thought, go a long way. 
So I went back to Chester, where I’d been so happy, and 
set up a small-ware shop, and hired a room near. We 
should have done well, but alas ! alas I my little girl fell ill, 
and I could not mind my shop and her too : and things grew 

185 


Mary Barton 

worse and worse. I sold my goods anyhow to get money to 
buy her food and medicine ; I wrote over and over again to 
her father for help, but he must have changed his quarters, 
for I never got an answer. The landlord seized the few 
bobbins and tapes I had left, for shop-rent ; and the person 
to whom the mean little room, to which we had been forced 
to remove, belonged, threatened to turn us out unless his 
rent was paid ; it had run on many weeks, and it was winter, 
cold bleak winter ; and my child was so ill, so ill, and I was 
starving. And I could not bear to see her suffer, and forgot 
how much better it wbuld be for us to die together ; — oh, her 
moans, her moans, which money could give the means of 
relieving ! So I went out into the street one January night 
— Do you think God will punish me for that ? ” she asked 
with wild vehemence, almost amounting to insanity, and 
shaking Jem’s arm in order to force an answer from him. 

But before he could shape his heart’s sympathy into 
words, her voice had lost its wildness, and she spoke with 
the quiet of despair. 

“ But it’s no matter ! I’ve done that since, which 
separates us as far asunder as heaven and hell can be.” Her 
voice rose again to the sharp pitch of agony. “ My darling ! 
my darling ! even after death I may not see thee, my own 
sweet one ! she was so good — like a little angel. What is 
that text, I don’t remember, — the text mother used to teach 
me when I sat on her knee long ago ; it begins ‘ Blessed are 
the pure ’ ” 

“ Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” 

“ Ay, that’s it ! It would break mother’s heart if she 
knew what I am now — it did break Mary’s heart, you see. 
And now I recollect it was about her child I wanted to see 
you, Jem. You know Mary Barton, don’t you ? ” said she, 
trying to collect her thoughts. 

Yes, Jem knew her. How well, his beating heart could 
testify. 

“ Well, there’s something to do for her ; I forget what ; 
wait a minute ! She is so like my little girl ; ” said she 

i86 


Jem’s Interview with Poor Esther 

raising her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, in search of 
the sympathy of Jem’s countenance. 

He deeply pitied her ; hut oh ! how he longed to recall 
her mind to the subject of Mary, and the lover above her in 
rank, and the service to be done for her sake. But he 
controlled himself to silence. After awhile, she spoke again, 
and in a calmer voice. 

“ When I came to Manchester (for I could not stay in 
Chester after her death), I found you all out very soon. And 
yet I never thought my poor sister was dead. I suppose I 
would not think so. I used to watch about the court where 
John lived, for many and many a night, and gather all I 
could about them from the neighbour’s talk ; for I never 
asked a question. I put this and that together, and followed 
one, and listened to another ; many’s the time I’ve watched 
the policeman off his beat, and peeped through the chink of 
the window-shutter to see the old room, and sometimes Mary 
or her father sitting up late for some reason or another. I 
found out Mary went to learn dressmaking, and I began to 
be frightened for her ; for it’s a bad life for a girl to be out 
late at night in the streets, and after many an hour of weary 
work, they’re ready to follow after any novelty that makes a 
little change. But I made up my mind, that bad as I was, 
I could watch over Mary, and perhaps keep her from harm. 
So I used to wait for her at nights, and follow her home, 
often when she little knew any one was near her. There 
was one of her companions I never could abide, and I’m 
sure that girl is at the bottom of some mischief. By-and-by 
Mary’s walks homewards were not alone. She was joined 
soon after she came out by a man ; a gentleman. I began 
to fear for her, for I saw she was light-hearted, and pleased 
with his attentions ; and I thought worse of him for having 
such long talks with that bold girl I told you of. But I was 
laid up for a long time with spitting of blood ; and could do 
nothing. I’m sure it made me worse, thinking about what 
might be happening to Mary. And when I came out, all 
was going on as before, only she seemed fonder of him than 

187 


Mary Barton 

ever ; and oh ! Jem, her father won’t listen to me, and 
it’s you must save Mary ! You’re like a brother to her, and 
maybe could give her advice and watch over her, and at any 
rate John will hearken to you; only he’s so stem, and 
so cmel.” She began to cry a little at the remembrance 
of his harsh words; but Jem cut her short by his hoarse, 
stern inquiry — 

“ Who is this spark that Mary loves ? Tell me his name ! ” 

“ It’s young Carson, old Carson’s son, that your father 
worked for.” 

There was a pause. She broke the silence — 

“ O Jem, I charge you with the care of her ! I suppose 
it would be murder to kill her, but it would be better for her 
to die than to live to lead such a hfe as I do. Do you hear 
me, Jem ? ” 

“ Yes, I hear you. It would be better. Better we were 
all dead.” This was said as if thinking aloud ; but he 
immediately changed his tone and continued — 

“ Esther, you may trust to my doing all I can for Mary. 
That I have determined on. And now listen to me. You 
loathe the life you lead, else you would not speak of it as you 
do. Come home with me. Come to my mother. She and 
my aurit Alice live together. I will see that they give you a 
welcome. And to-morrow I will see if some honest way of 
living cannot be found for you. Come home with me.” 

She was silent for a minute, and he hoped he had gained 
his point. Then she said — 

“God bless you, Jem, for the words you have just 
spoken. Some years ago you might have saved me, as 
I hope and trust you will yet save Mary. But it is too late 
now ; too late,” she added, with accents of deep despair. 

Still he did not relax his hold. “ Come home,” he said. 

“ I tell you, I cannot. I could not lead a virtuous life if I 
would. I should only disgrace you. If you will know all,” said 
she, as he still seemed inclined to urge her, “ I must have 
drink. Such as live like me could not bear life if they did 
not drink. It’s the only thing to keep us from suicide. If 

i88 


Jem’s Interview with Poor Esther 

we did not drink, we could not stand the memory of what 
we have been, and the thought of what we are, for a day. 
If I go without food, and without shelter, I must have my 
dram. Oh ! you don’t know the awful nights I have had in 
prison for want of it,” said she, shuddering, and glaring 
round with terrified eyes, as if dreading to see some spiritual 
creature, with dim form, near her. 

“It is so frightful to see them,” whispering in tones 
of wildness, although so low spoken. “ There they go round 
and round my bed the whole night through. My mother, 
carrying little Annie (I wonder how they got together) and 
Mary — and all looking at me with their sad stony eyes ; 
O Jem ! it is so terrible ! They don’t turn back either, but 
pass behind the head of the bed, and I feel their eyes on me 
everywhere. If I creep under the clothes I still see them ; and 
what is worse,” hissing out her words with fright, “they see 
me. Don’t speak to me of leading a better life — I must have 
drink. I cannot pass to-night without a dram ; I dare not.” 

Jem was silent from deep sympathy. Oh ! could he, 
then, do nothing for her! She spoke again, but in a less 
excited tone, although it was thrillingly earnest. 

“ You are grieved for me I I know it better than if you 
told me in words. But you can do nothing for me. I am 
past hope. You can yet save Mary. You must. She is 
innocent, except for the great error of loving one above her 
in station. Jem I you will save her ? ” 

With heart and soul, though in few words, Jem promised 
that if aught earthly could keep her from falling, he would do 
it. Then she blessed him, and bade him good-night. 

“ Stay a minute,” said he, as she was on the point of 
departure. “I may want to speak to you again. I mun 
know where to find you — where do you live ? ” 

She laughed strangely. “ And do you think one sunk so 
low as I am has a home ? Decent, good people have homes. 
We have none. No; if you want me, come at night and 
look at the corners of the streets about here. The colder, 
the bleaker, the more stormy the night, the more certain you 

189 


Mary Barton 

will be to find me. For then,” she added, with a plaintive 
fall in her voice, “it is so cold sleeping in entries, and on 
doorsteps, and I want a dram more than ever.” 

Again she rapidly turned off, and Jem also went on his 
way. But before he reached the end of the street, even in 
the midst of the jealous anguish that filled his heart, his 
conscience smote him. He had not done enough to save 
her. One more effort, and she might have come. Nay, 
twenty efforts would have been well rewarded by her yield- 
ing. He turned back, but she was gone. In the tumult of 
his other feelings, his self-reproach was deadened for the 
time. But many and many a day afterwards he bitterly 
regretted his omission of duty; his weariness of well- 
doing. 

Now, the great thing was to reach home, and solitude. 
Mary loved another ! Oh ! how should he bear it ? He had 
thought her rejection of him a hard trial, but that was 
nothing now. He only remembered it, to be thankful that 
he had not yielded to the temptation of trying his fate again, 
not in actual words, but in a meeting, where her manner 
should tell far more than words, that her sweet smiles, her 
dainty movements, her pretty household ways, were all to 
be reserved to gladden another’s eyes and heart. And he 
must live on ; that seemed the strangest. That a long life 
(and he knew men did live long, even with deep, biting 
sorrow corroding at their hearts) must be spent without 
Mary ; nay, with the consciousness she was another’s ! That 
hell of thought he would reserve for the quiet of his own 
room, the dead stillness of night. He was on the threshold 
of home now. 

He entered. There were the usual faces, the usual sights. 
He loathed them, and then he cursed himself because he 
loathed them. His mother’s love had taken a cross turn, 
because he had kept the tempting supper she had prepared 
for him waiting until it was nearly spoilt. Alice, her dulled 
senses deadening day by day, sat mutely near the fire : her 
happiness bounded by the consciousness of the presence of 

190 


Jem’s Interview with Poor Esther 

her foster-child, knowing that his voice repeated what was 
passing to her deafened ear, that his arm removed each little 
obstacle to her tottering steps. And Will, out of the very 
kindness of his heart, talked more and more merrily than 
ever. He saw Jem was downcast, and fancied his rattling 
might cheer him ; at any rate, it drowned his aunt’s muttered 
grumblings, and in some measure concealed the blank of the 
evening. At last, bed- time came ; and Will withdrew to his 
neighbouring lodging; and Jane and Alice Wilson had raked 
the fire, and fastened doors and shutters, and pattered 
upstairs, with their tottering footsteps and shrill voices. 
Jem, too, went to the closet termed his bedroom. There was 
no bolt to the door ; but by one strong effort of his right arm, 
a heavy chest was moved against it, and he could sit down 
on the side of his bed, and think. 

Mary loved another ! That idea would rise uppermost in 
his mind, and had to be combated in all its forms of pain. 
It was, perhaps, no great wonder that she should prefer one 
so much above Jem in the external things of life. But the 
gentleman ! why did he, with his range of choice among the 
ladies of the land, why did he stoop down to carry off the 
poor man’s darling ? With all the glories of the garden at 
his hand, why did he prefer to cull the wild-rose, — J em’s own 
fragrant wild -rose ? 

His ovm ! Oh ! never now his own ! — Gone for ever- 
more ! 

Then uprose the guilty longing for blood ! — the frenzy of 
jealousy! — Some one should die. He would rather Mary 
were dead, cold in her grave, than that she were another’s. 
A vision of her pale, sweet face, with her bright hair all 
bedabbled with gore, seemed to float constantly before his 
aching eyes. But hers were ever open, and contained, in 
their soft, deathly look, such mute reproach ! What had she 
done to deserve such cruel treatment from him ? She had 
been wooed by one whom Jem knew to be handsome, gay, 
and bright, and she had given him her love. That was all ! 
It was the wooer who should die. Yes, die, knowing the 

IQT 


Mary Barton 

cause of his death. Jem pictured him (and gloated on the 
picture), lying smitten, yet conscious ; and listening to the 
upbraiding accusation of his murderer. How he had left his 
own rank, and dared to love a maiden of low degree ! and 
oh ! stinging agony of all — how she, in return, had loved 
him ! Then the other nature spoke up, and bade him 
remember the anguish he should so prepare for Mary ! At 
first he refused to listen to that better voice ; or listened only 
to pervert. He would glory in her wailing grief ! he would 
take pleasure in her desolation of heart ! 

No ! he could not, said the still small voice. It would be 
worse, far worse, to have caused such woe, than it was now 
to bear his present heavy burden. 

But it was too heavy, too grievous to be borne, and live. 
He would slay himself and the lovers should love on, and 
the sun shine bright, and he with his burning, woeful heart 
would be at rest. “ Best that is reserved for the people of 
God.” 

Had he not promised, with such earnest purpose of soul 
as makes words more solemn than oaths, to save Mary from 
becoming such as Esther ? Should he shrink from the duties 
of life, into the cowardliness of death ? Who would then 
guard Mary, with her love and her innocence? Would it 
not be a goodly thing to serve her, although she loved him 
not ; to be her preserving angel, through the perils of life ; 
and she, unconscious all the while ? 

He braced up his soul, and said to himself, that with 
God’s help he would be that earthly keeper. 

And now the mists and the storms seemed clearing away 
from his path, though it still was full of stinging thorns. 
Having done the duty nearest to him (of reducing the tumult 
of his own heart to something like order), the second became 
more plain before him. 

Poor Esther’s experience had led her, perhaps too hastily, 
to the conclusion that Mr. Carson’s intentions were evil 
towards Mary; at least she had given no just ground for 
the fears she entertained that such was the case. It was 

192 


Jem’s Interview with Poor Esther 

possible, nay, to Jem’s heart very probable, that he might 
only be too happy to marry her. She was a lady by right of 
nature, Jem thought ; in movement, grace, and spirit. What 
was birth to a Manchester manufacturer, many of whom 
glory, and justly too, in being the architects of their own 
fortunes ? And, as far as wealth was concerned, judging 
another by himself, Jem could only imagine it a great 
privilege to lay it at the feet of the loved one. Harry 
Carson’s mother had been a factory girl ; so, after all, what 
was the great reason for doubting his intentions towards 
Mary ? 

There might probably be some little awkwardness about 
the affair at first : Mary’s father having such strong pre- 
judices on the one hand, and something of the same kind 
being likely to exist on the part of Mr. Carson’s family. 
But Jem knew he had power over John Barton’s mind ; 
and it would be something to exert that power in promoting 
Mary’s happiness, and to relinquish all thought of self in so 
doing. 

Oh ! why’ had Esther chosen him for this office ? It was 
beyond his strength to act rightly! Why had she singled 
him out? 

The answer came when he was calm enough to listen 
for it : Because Mary had no other friend capable of the duty 
required of him ; the duty of a brother, as Esther imagined 
him to be in feeling, from his long friendship. He would be 
unto her as a brother. 

As such, he ought to ascertain Harry Carson’s intentions 
towards her in winning her affections. He would ask him 
straightforwardly, as became man speaking to man, not 
concealing, if need were, the interest he felt in Mary. 

Then, with the resolve to do his duty to the best of his 
power, peace came into his soul ; he had left the windy 
storm and tempest behind. 

Two hours before day-dawn he fell asleep. 


193 


o 


Mary Barton 


CHAPTEE XV 

A VIOLENT MEETING BETWEEN THE EIVALS 

“ What thoughtful heart can look into this gulf 
That darkly yawns ’twixt rich and poor, 

And not find food for saddest meditation I 
Can see, without a pang of keenest grief. 

Them fiercely battling (like some natural foes) 

Whom God had made, with help and sympathy, 

To stand as brothers, side by side, united I 
Where is the wisdom that shall bridge this gulf, 

And bind them once again in trust and love ? ” 

“ Love-Truths.” 

We must return to John Barton. Poor John! He nevei 
got over his disappointing journey to London. The deep 
mortification he then experienced (with, perhaps, as little 
selfishness for its cause as mortification ever had) was of no 
temporary nature ; indeed, few of his feelings were. 

Then came a long period of bodily privation; of daily 
hunger after food ; and though he tried to persuade himself 
he could bear want himself with stoical indifference, and did 
care about it as httle as most men, yet the body took its 
revenge for its uneasy feelings. The mind became soured 
and morose, and lost much of its equipoise. It was no longer 
elastic, as in the days of youth, or in times of comparative 
happiness; it ceased to hope. And it is hard to five on 
when one can no longer hope. 

The same state of feeling which John Barton entertained, 
if belonging to one who had had leisure to think of such 
things, and physicians to give names to them, would have 
been called monomania ; so haunting, so incessant, were the 
thoughts that pressed upon him. I have somewhere read a 
forcibly described punishment among the Italians, worthy of 
a Borgia. The supposed or real criminal was shut up in a 
room, supplied with every convenience and luxury ; and at 

194 


A Violent Meeting between the Rivals 

first mourned little over his imprisonment. But day by day 
he became aware that the space between the walls of his 
apartment was narrowing, and then he understood the end. 
Those painted walls would come into hideous nearness, and 
at last crush the life out of him. 

And so day by day, nearer and nearer, came the diseased 
thoughts of John Barton. They excluded the light of 
heaven, the cheering sounds of earth. They were preparing 
his death. 

It is true much of their morbid power might be ascribed 
to the use of opium. But before you blame too harshly this 
use, or rather abuse, try a hopeless life, with daily cravings 
of the body for food. Try, not alone being without hope 
yourself, but seeing all around you reduced to the same 
despair, arising from the same circumstances; all around 
you telling (though they use no words or language), by their 
looks and feeble actions, that they are suffering and sinking 
under the pressure of want. Would you not be glad to forget 
life, and its burdens ? And opium gives forgetfulness for a 
time. 

It is true they who thus purchase it pay dearly for their 
oblivion ; but can you expect the uneducated to count the 
cost of their whistle ? Poor wretches ! They pay a heavy 
price. Days of oppressive weariness and languor, whose 
realities have the feeble sickliness of dreams ; nights, whose 
dreams are fierce realities of agony ; sinking health, tottering 
frames, incipient madness, and worse, the consciousness of 
incipient madness : this is the price of their whistle. But 
have you taught them the science of consequences ? 

John Barton’s overpowering thought, which was to work 
out his fate on earth, was rich and poor ; why are they so 
separate, so distinct, when God has made them all? It is 
not His will that their interests are so far apart. Whose 
doing is it ? 

And so on into the problems and mysteries of life, until, 
bewildered and lost, unhappy and suffering, the only feeling 
that remained clear and undisturbed in the tumult of his 

195 


Mary Barton 

heart, was hatred to the one class, and keen sympathy with 
the other. 

But what availed his sympathy ? No education had given 
him wisdom; and without wisdom, even love, with all its 
effects, too often works but harm. He acted to the best of 
his judgment, but it was a widely-erring judgment. 

The actions of the uneducated seem to be typified in those 
of Frankenstein, that monster of many human quahties, im- 
gifted with a soul, a knowledge of the difference between 
good and evil. 

The people rise up to life ; they irritate us, they terrify 
us, and we become their enemies. Then, in the sorrowful 
moment of our triumphant power, their eyes gaze on us with 
mute reproach. Why have we made them what they are ; a 
powerful monster, yet without the inner means for peace and 
happiness ? 

John Barton became a Chartist, a Communist, all that is 
commonly called wild and visionary. Ay ! but being visionary 
is something. It shows a soul, a being not altogether sensual ; 
a creature who looks forward for others, if not for himself. 

And with all his weakness he had a sort of practical power, 
which made him useful to the bodies of men to whom he 
belonged. He had a ready kind of rough Lancashire elo- 
quence, arising out of the fulness of his heart, which was 
very stirring to men similarly circumstanced, who liked to 
hear their feelings put into words. He had a pretty clear 
head at times, for method and arrangement; a necessary 
talent to large combinations of men. And what perhaps 
more than all made him relied upon and valued, was the 
consciousness which every one who came in contact with 
him felt, that he was actuated by no selfish motives ; that his 
class, his order, was what he stood by, not the rights of his 
own paltry self. For even in great and noble men, as soon 
as self comes into prominent existence, it becomes a mean 
and paltry thing. 

A little time before this, there had come one of those 
occasions for deliberation among the employed, which deeply 

196 


A Violent Meeting between the Rivals 

interested John Barton, and the discussions concerning which 
had caused his frequent absence from home of late. 

I am not sure if I can express myself in the technical 
terms of either masters or workmen, but I will try simply to 
state the case on which the latter deliberated. 

An order for coarse goods came in from a new foreign 
market. It was a large order, giving employment to all the 
mills engaged in that species of manufacture; but it was 
necessary to execute it speedily, and at as low prices as 
possible, as the masters had reason to believe that a duplicate 
order had been sent to one of the continental manufacturing 
towns, where there were no restrictions on food, no taxes on 
building or machinery, and where consequently they dreaded 
that the goods could be made at a much lower price than 
they could afford them for ; and that, by so acting and charg- 
ing, the rival manufactures would obtain undivided possession 
of the market. It was clearly their interest to buy cotton as 
cheaply, and to beat down wages as low as possible. And in 
the long run the interests of the workmen would have been 
thereby benefited. Distrust each other as they may, the 
employers and the employed must rise or fall together. There 
may be some difference as to chronology, none as to fact. 

But the masters did not choose to make all these circum- 
stances known. They stood upon being the masters, and 
that they had a right to order work at their own prices, and 
they believed that in the present depression of trade, and un- 
employment of hands, there would be no great difficulty in 
getting it done. 

Now let us turn to the workmen’s view of the question. 
The masters (of the tottering foundation of whose prosperity 
they were ignorant) seemed doing well, and, like gentlemen, 
“ lived at home in ease,” while they were starving, gasping 
on from day to day ; and there was a foreign order to be 
executed, the extent of which, large as it was, was greatly 
exaggerated ; and it was to be done speedily. Why were the 
masters offering such low wages under these circumstances ? 
Shame upon them ! It was taking advantage of their 

197 


Mary Barton 

work-people being almost starved ; but they would starve 
entirely rather than come into such terms. It was bad 
enough to be poor, while by the labour of their thin hands, 
the sweat of their hrows, the masters were made rich ; but 
they would not be utterly ground down to dust. No ! they 
would fold their hands and sit idle, and smile at the masters, 
whom even in death they could baffle. With Spartan en- 
durance they determined to let the employers know their 
power, by refusing to work. 

So class distrusted class, and their want of mutual con- 
fidence wrought sorrow to both. The masters would not he 
bullied, and compelled to reveal why they felt it wisest and 
best to offer only such low wages ; they would not be made 
to tell that they were even sacrificing capital to obtain a 
decisive victory over the continental manufacturers. And the 
workmen sat silent and stem with folded hands, refusing to 
work for such pay. There was a strike in Manchester. 

Of course it was succeeded by the usual consequences. 
Many other Trades’ Unions, connected with different branches 
of business, supported with money, countenance, and en- 
couragement of every kind, the stand which the Manchester 
power-loom weavers , were making against their masters. 
Delegates from Glasgow, from Nottingham, and other towns, 
were sent to Manchester, to keep up the spirit of resistance ; 
a committee was formed, and all the requisite officers elected ; 
chairman, treasurer, honorary secretary ; — among them was 
John Barton. 

The masters, meanwhile, took their measures. They 
placarded the walls with advertisements for power-loom 
weavers. The workmen replied by a placard in still larger 
letters, stating their grievances. The masters met daily in 
town, to mourn over the time (so fast slipping away) for the 
fulfilment of the foreign orders ; and to strengthen each other 
in their resolution not to yield. If they gave up now, they 
might give up always. It would never do. And amongst 
the most energetic of the masters, the Carsons, father and 
son, took their places. It is well known, that there is no 

198 


A Violent Meeting between the Rivals 

religionist so zealous as a convert ; no masters so stern, and 
regardless of the interests of their work-people, as those who 
have risen from such a station themselves. This would 
account for the elder Mr. Carson’s determination not to be 
bullied into yielding ; not even to be bullied into giving reasons 
for acting as the masters did. It was the employers’ will, 
and that should be enough for the employed. Harry Carson 
did not trouble himself much about the grounds for his con- 
duct. He liked the excitement of the affair. He liked the 
attitude of resistance. He was bi'ave, and he liked the idea 
of personal danger, with which some of the more cautious 
tried to intimidate the violent among the masters. 

Meanwhile, the power-loom weavers living in the more 
remote parts of Lancashire, and the neighbouring counties, 
heard of the masters’ advertisements for workmen ; and in 
their solitary dwellings grew weary of starvation, and resolved 
to come to Manchester. Foot-sore, way-worn, half-starved 
looking men they were, as they tried to steal into town in 
the early dawn, before people were astir, or in the dusk of 
the evening. And now began the real wrong-doing of the 
Trades’ Unions. As to their decision to work, or not, at 
such, a particular rate of wages, that was either wise or 
unwise ; an error of judgment at the worst. But they had 
no right to tyrannise over others, and tie them down to their 
own Procrustean bed. Abhorring what they considered 
oppression in the masters, why did they oppress others? 
Because, when men get excited, they know not what they 
do. Judge, then, with something of the mercy of the Holy 
One, whom we all love. 

In spite of policemen, set to watch over the safety of the 
poor country weavers — in spite of magistrates, and prisons, 
and severe punishments— the poor depressed men tramping 
in from Burnley, Padiham, and other places, to work at the 
condemned “ Starvation Prices,” were waylaid, and beaten, 
and left by the roadside almost for dead. The police broke 
up every lounging knot of men they separated quietly, to 
reunite half-a-mile out of town. 

199 


Mary Barton 

Of course the feeling between the masters and workmen 
did not improve under these circumstances. 

Combination is an awful power. It is like the equally 
mighty agency of steam ; capable of almost unlimited good 
or evil. But to obtain a blessing on its labours, it must 
work under the direction of a high and intelligent will; 
incapable of being misled by passion or excitement. The 
will of the operatives bad not been guided to the calmness 
of wisdom. 

So much for generalities. Let us now return to indivi- 
duals. 

A note, respectfully worded, although its tone of deter- 
mination was strong, had been sent by the power-loom 
weavers, requesting that a “ deputation ” of them might 
have a meeting with the masters, to state the conditions 
they must have fulfilled before they would end the turn-out. 
They thought they had attained a sufficiently commanding 
position to dictate. John Barton was appointed one of the 
deputation. 

The masters agreed to this meeting, being anxious to end 
the strife, although undetermined among themselves how far 
they should yield, or whether they should yield at all. 
Some of the old, whose experience had taught them sym- 
pathy, were for concession. Others, white-headed men too, 
had only learnt hardness and obstinacy from the days of 
the years of their lives, and sneered at the more gentle and 
yielding. The younger men were one and all for an un- 
flinching resistance to claims urged with so much violence. 
Of this party Harry Carson was the leader. 

But like all energetic people, the more he had to do the 
more time he seemed to find. With all his letter- writing, 
his calling, his being present at the New Bailey, when 
investigations of any case of violence against knob-sticks * 
was going on, he beset Mary more than ever. She was 
weary of her life for him. From blandishments he had 
even gone to threats — threats that whether she would or not 
* “ Knob-sticks,” those who consent to work at lower wages. 

200 


A Violent Meeting between the Rivals 

she should be his; he showed an indifference that was 
almost insulting to everything which might attract attention 
and injure her character. 

And still she never saw Jem. She knew he had 
returned home. She heard of him occasionally through his 
cousin, who roved gaily from house to house, finding and 
making friends everywhere. But she never saw him. What 
was she to think? Had he given her up? Were a few 
hasty words, spoken in a moment of irritation, to stamp her 
lot through life ? At times she thought that she could bear 
this meekly, happy in her own constant power of loving. 
For of change or of forgetfulness she did not dream. Then 
at other times her state of impatience was such, that it 
required all her self-restraint to prevent her from going and 
seeking him out, and (as man would do to man, or woman 
to woman) begging him to forgive her hasty words, and 
allow her to retract them, and bidding him accept of the 
love that was filling her whole heart. She wished Margaret 
had not advised her against such a manner of proceeding ; 
she beheved it was her friend’s words that seemed to make 
such a simple action impossible, in spite of all the internal 
urgings. But a friend’s advice is only thus powerful, v/hen 
it puts into language the secret oracle of our souls. It was 
me whisperings of her womanly nature that caused her to 
shrink from any unmaidenly action, not Margaret’s counsel. 

All this time, this ten days or so, of Will’s visit to 
Manchester, there was something going on which interested 
Mary even now, and which, in former times, would have 
exceedingly amused and excited her. She saw as clearly as 
if told in words, that the merry, random, boisterous sailor 
had fallen deeply in love with the quiet, prim, somewhat 
plain Margaret : she doubted if Margaret was aware of it, 
and yet, as she watched more closely, she began to think ^ 
some instinct made the blind girl feel whose eyes were 
so often fixed upon her pale face ; that some inner feeling 
made the delicate and becoming rose-flush steal over her 
countenance. She did not speak so decidedly as before; 

201 


Mary Barton 

there was a hesitation in her manner, that seemed to make 
her very attractive; as if something softer, more loveable 
than excellent sense, were coming in as a motive for speech ; 
her eyes had always been soft, and were in no ways dis- 
figured by her blindness, and now seemed to have a new 
charm, as they quivered under their white, downcast lids. 
She must be conscious, thought Mary, — heart answering to 
heart. 

Will’s love had no blushings, no downcast eyes, no 
weighing of words ; it was as open and undisguised as his 
nature ; yet he seemed afraid of the answer its acknowledg- 
ment might meet with. It was Margaret’s angelic voice 
that had entranced him, and which made him think of her 
as a being of some other sphere, that he feared to woo. So 
he tried to propitiate Job in all manner of ways. He went 
over to Liverpool to rummage in his great sea-chest for the 
flying-fish (no very odorous present, by the way). He 
hesitated over a child’s caul for some time, which was, 
in his eyes, a far greater treasure than any Exocetus. 
What use could it be of to a landsman ? Then Margaret’s 
voice rang in his ears ; and he determined to sacrifice it, his 
most precious possession, to one whom she loved as she did 
her grandfather. 

It was rather a relief to him, when, having put it and the 
flying-fish together in a brown-paper parcel, and sat upon 
them for security all the way in the railroad, he found that 
Job was so indifferent to the precious caul, that he might 
easily claim it again. He hung about Margaret, till he had 
received many warnings and reproaches from his conscience 
in behalf of his dear aunt Alice’s claims upon his time. He 
went away, and then he bethought him of some other little 
word with Job. And he turned back, and stood talking 
once more in Margaret’s presence, door in hand, only 
waiting for some little speech of encouragement to come in 
and sit down again. But as the invitation was not given, 
he was forced to leave at last, and go and do his duty. 

Four days had Jem Wilson watched for Mr. Harry 
202 


A Violent Meeting between the Rivals 

Carson without success ; his hours of going and returning to 
his home were so irregular, owing to the meetings and 
consultations amongst the masters, which were rendered 
necessary by the turn-out. On the fifth, without any 
purpose on Jem’s part, they met. 

It was the workman’s dinner-hour, the interval between 
twelve and one; when the streets of Manchester are com- 
paratively quiet, for a few shopping ladies, and lounging 
gentlemen, count for nothing in that busy, bustling, living 
place. Jem had been on an errand for his master, instead 
of returning to his dinner ; and in passing along the lane, 
a road (called, in compliment to the intentions of some 
future builder, a street), he encountered Harry Carson, the 
only person, as far as he saw, beside himself, treading the 
unfrequented path. Along one side ran a high broad fence, 
blackened over by coal-tar, and spiked and stuck with 
pointed nails at the top, to prevent any one from climbing 
over into the garden beyond. By this fence was a footpath. 
The carriage-road was such as no carriage, no, not even 
a cart, could possibly have passed along without Hercules to 
assist in lifting it out of the deep clay ruts. On the other 
side of the way was a dead brick wall ; and a field after that, 
where there was a sawpit, and joiner’s shed. 

Jem’s heart beat violently, when he saw the gay, hand- 
some young man approaching, with a light buoyant step. 
This, then, was he whom Mary loved. It was, perhaps, no 
wonder ; for he seemed to the poor smith so elegant, so well 
appointed, that he felt the superiority in externals, strangely 
and painfully, for an instant. Then something uprose within 
him, and told him, that “ a man’s a man for a’ that, for a’ 
that, and twice as much as a’ that.” And he no longer felt 
troubled by the outward appearance of his rival. 

Harry Carson came on, lightly bounding over the dirty 
places with almost a lad’s buoyancy. To his surprise the 
dark, sturdy-looking artisan stopped him by saying 
respectfully — 

“ May I speak a word wi’ you, sir ? ” 

203 


Mary Barton 

“Certainly, my good man,” looking his astonishment; 
then finding that the promised speech did not come very 
quickly, he added, “ But make haste, for I’m in a hurry.” 

Jem had cast about for some less abrupt way of broaching 
the subject uppermost in his mind than he now found himself 
obliged to use. With a husky voice that trembled as he spoke, 
he said — 

“ I think, sir, yo’re keeping company wi’ a young woman 
called Mary Barton ? ” 

A light broke in upon Henry Carson’s mind, and he 
paused before he gave the answer for which the other 
waited. 

Could this man be a lover of Mary’s? And (strange 
stinging thought) could he be beloved by her, and so have 
caused her obstinate rejection of himself? He looked at 
Jem from head to foot, a black, grimy mechanic, in dirty 
fustian clothes, strongly built, and awkward (according to 
the dancing-master) ; then he glanced at himself, and recalled 
the reflection he had so lately quitted in his bedroom. It 
was impossible. No woman with eyes could choose the one 
when the other wooed. It was Hyperion to a Satyr. That 
quotation came aptly ; he forgot “ That a man’s a man for 
a’ that.” And yet here was a clue, which he had often 
wanted, to her changed conduct towards him. If she loved 

this man. If he hated the fellow, and longed to strike 

him. He would know all. 

“ Mary Barton ! let me see. Ay, that is the name of the 
girl. An arrant flirt the little hussy is; but very pretty. 
Ay, Mary Barton is her name.” 

Jem bit his lips. Was it then so ; that Mary was a flirt ; 
the giddy creature of whom he spoke? He would not 
believe it, and yet how he wished the suggestive words 
unspoken. That thought must keep now, though. Even if 
she were, the more reason for there being some one to 
protect her ; poor faulty darling. 

“ She’s a good girl, sir, though maybe a bit set up with 

her beauty; but she’s her father’s only child, sir, and ” 

204 


A Violent Meeting between the Rivals 

he stopped ; he did not like to express suspicion, and yet, he 
was determined he would be certain there was ground for 
none. What should he say ? 

“ Well, my fine fellow, and what have I to do with that ? 
It’s but loss of my time, and yours, too, if you’ve only 
stopped me to tell me Mary Barton is very pretty ; I know 
that well enough.” 

He seemed as though he would have gone on, but Jem 
put his black, working, right hand upon his arm to detain 
him. The haughty young man shook it off, and with his 
glove pretended to brush away the sooty contamination that 
might be left upon his light greatcoat sleeve. The little 
action aroused Jem. 

“ I will tell you in plain words, what I have got to say to 
you, young man. It’s been telled me by one as knows, and 
has seen, that you walk with this same Mary Barton, and 
are known to be courting her ; and her as spoke to me about 
it, thinks as how Mary loves you. That may be or may not. 
But I’m an old friend of hers and her father’s ; and I just 
wished to know if you mean to marry the girl. Spite of 
what you said of her lightness, I ha’ known her long enough 
to be sure she’ll make a noble wife for any one, let him be 
what he may ; and I mean to stand by her like a brother ; 
and if you mean rightly, you’ll not think the worse on me for 
what I’ve now said ; and if — but no. I’ll not say what I’ll do 
to the man who wrongs a hair of her head. He shall rue it 
to the longest day he lives, that’s all. Now, sir, what I ask 
of you is this. If you mean fair and honourable by her, well 
and good : but if not, for your own sake as well as hers, leave 
her alone, and never speak to her more.” Jem’s voice 
quivered with the earnestness with which he spoke, and he 
eagerly waited for some answer. 

Harry Carson, meanwhile, instead of attending very par- 
ticularly to the purpose the man had in addressing him, was 
trying to gather from his speech what was the real state 
of the case. He succeeded so far as to comprehend that 
Jem inclined to believe that Mary lovQd his rival; and 

205 


Mary Barton 

consequently, that if the speaker were attached to her himself, 
he was not a favoured admirer. The idea came into Mr. 
Carson’s mind, that perhaps, after all, Mary loved him in 
spite of her frequent and obstinate rejections ; and that she 
had employed this person (whoever he was) to bully him 
into marrying her. He resolved to try and ascertain more 
correctly the man’s relation to her. Either he was a lover, 
and if so, not a favoured one (in which case Mr. Carson 
could not at all understand the man’s motives for interesting 
himself in securing her marriage); or he was a friend, an 
accomplice, whom she had employed to bully him. So little 
faith in goodness have the mean and selfish ! 

“ Before I make you into my confidant, my good man,” 
said Mr. Carson, in a contemptuous tone, “ I think it might 
be as well to inquire your right to meddle with our affairs. 
Neither Mary, nor I, as I conceive, called you in as a 
mediator.” He paused : he wanted a distinct answer to this 
last supposition. None came : so he began to imagine he 
was to be threatened into some engagement, and his angry 
spirit rose. 

“ And so, my fine fellow, you will have the kindness to 
leave us to ourselves, and not to meddle with what does not 
concern you. If you were a brother or father of hers, the 
case might have been different. As it is, I can only consider 
you an impertinent meddler.” 

Again he would have passed on, but Jem stood in a 
determined way before him, saying — 

“ You say if I had been her brother, or her father, you’d 
have answered me what I ask. Now, neither father nor 
brother could love her as I have loved her — ay, and as I 
love her still; if love gives a right to satisfaction, it’s 
next to impossible any one breathing can come up to 
my right. Now, sir, tell me! do you mean fair, by Mary 
or not ? I’ve proved my claim to know, and by G — , I will 
know.” 

“ Come, come, no impudence,” replied Mr. Carson, who, 
having cjiscoyered what he wanted to know (namely, that 

206 


A Violent Meeting between the Rivals 

Jem was a lover of Mary’s, and that she was not encouraging 
his suit), wished to pass on. 

“ Father, brother, or rejected lover ” (with an emphasis 
on the word rejected), “ no one has a right to interfere 
between my little girl and me. No one shall. Confound 
you, man ! get out of my way, or I’ll make you,” as Jem 
still obstructed his path with dogged determination. 

“ I won’t then, till you’ve given me your word about 
Mary,” replied the mechanic, grinding his words out 
between his teeth, and the livid paleness of the anger he 
could no longer keep down covering his face till he looked 
ghastly. 

“ Won’t you ? ” (with a taunting laugh), “ then I’ll make 
you.” The young man raised his slight cane, and smote 
the artisan across the face with a stinging stroke. An 
instant afterwards he lay stretched in the muddy road, Jem 
standing over him, panting with rage. What he would have 
done next in his moment of ungovernable passion, no one 
knows ; but a policeman from the main street, into which 
this road led, had been sauntering about for some time, 
unobserved by either of the parties, and expecting some kind 
of conclusion like the present to the violent discussion going 
on between the two young men. In a minute he had 
pinioned Jem, who sullenly yielded to the surprise. 

Mr. Carson was on his feet directly, his face glowing with 
rage or shame. 

“ Shall I take him to the lock-ups for assault, sir ? ” said 
the policeman. 

“No, no,” exclaimed Mr. Carson ; “I struck him first. 
It was no assault on his side : though,” he continued, hissing 
out his words to Jem, who even hated freedom procured for 
him, however justly, at the intervention of his rival, “ I 
will never forgive or forget your insult. Trust me,” he 
gasped the words in excess of passion, “ Mary shall fare 
no better for your insolent interference.” He laughed, as if 
with the consciousness of power. 

Jem replied with equal excitement — 

207 


Mary Barton 

“ And if you dare to injure her in the least, I will await 
you where no policeman can step in between. And God 
shall judge between us two.” 

The ■ policeman now interfered with persuasions and 
warnings. He locked his arm in J em s to lead him away in 
an opposite direction to that in which he saw Mr. Carson 
was going. Jem submitted gloomily, for a few steps, then 
wrenched himself free. The pohceman shouted after him — 

“ Take care, my man ! there’s no girl on earth worth 
what you’ll be bringing on yourself, if you don’t mind.” 

But Jem was oub of hearing. 


CHAPTEE XVI 

MEETING BETWEEN MASTERS AND WORKMEN 

“ Not for a moment take the scorner’s chair ; 

While seated there, thou know’st not how a word, 

A tone, a look, may gall thy brother’s heart, 

And make him turn in bitterness against thee.” 

” Love-Truths.” 

The day arrived on which the masters were to have an inter- 
view with a deputation of the work-people. The meeting was 
to take place in a public room, at an hotel ; and there, about 
eleven o’clock, the mill-owners, who had received the foreign 
orders, began to collect. 

Of course, the first subject, however full their minds might 
be of another, was the weather. Having done their duty by 
all the showers and sunshine which had occurred during the 
past week, they fell to talking about the business which 
brought them together. There might be about twenty 
gentlemen in the room, including some by courtesy, who 
were not immediately concerned in the settlement of the 
present question ; but who, nevertheless, were sufficiently 

208 


Meeting between Masters and Workmen 

interested to attend. These were divided into little groups, 
who did not seem by any means unanimous. Some were 
for a slight concession, just a sugar-plum to quieten the 
naughty child, a sacrifice to peace and quietness. Some 
were steadily and vehemently opposed to the dangerous 
precedent of yielding one jot or one tittle to the outward 
force of a turn-out. It was teaching the work-people how 
to become masters, said they. Did they want the wildest 
thing hereafter, they would know that the way to obtain 
their wishes would be to strike work. Besides, one or two 
of those present had only just returned from the New Bailey, 
where one of the turn-outs had been tried for a cruel assault 
on a poor north-country weaver, who had attempted to work 
at the low price. They were indignant, and justly so, at the 
merciless manner in which the poor fellow had been treated ; 
and their indignation at wrong, took (as it often does) the 
extreme form of revenge. They felt as if, rather than yield 
to the body of men who were resorting to such cruel measures 
towards their fellow-workmen, they, the masters, would sooner 
relinquish all the benefits to be derived from the fulfilment 
of the commission, in order that the workmen might suffer 
keenly. . They forgot that the strike was in this instance 
the consequence of want and need, suffered unjustly, as the 
endurers believed ; for, however insane, and without ground 
of reason, such was their belief, and such was the cause of 
their violence. It is a great truth that you cannot extinguish 
violence by violence. You may put it down for a time ; but 
while you are crowing over your imaginary success, see if it 
does not return with seven devils worse than its former self ! 

No one thought of treating the workmen as brethren and 
friends, and openly, clearly, as appealing to reasonable men, 
stating exactly and fully the circumstances which led the 
masters to think it was the wise policy of the time to make 
sacrifices themselves, and to hope for them from the 
operatives. 

In going from group to group in the room, you caught 
such a medley of sentences as the following — 

209 


p 


Mary Barton 

“ Poor devils ! they’re near enough to starving, I’m afraid. 
Mrs. Aldred makes two cows’ heads into soup every week, 
and people come many miles to fetch it ; and if these times 
last, we must try and do more. But we must not be bullied 
into anything ! ” 

“ A rise of a shilling or so won’t make much difference, 
and they will go away thinking they’ve gained their point.” 

“ That’s the very thing I object to. They’ll think so, 
and whenever they’ve a point to gain, no matter how 
unreasonable, they’ll strike work.” 

“ It really injures them more than us.” 

“ I don’t see how our interests can be separated.” 

“ The d d brute had thrown vitriol on the poor fellow’s 

ankles, and you know what a bad part that is to heal. He 
had to stand still with the pain, and that left him at the 
mercy of the cruel wretch, who beat him about the head till 
you’d hardly have known he was a man. They doubt if 
he’ll live.” 

“If it were only for that, I’ll stand out against them, 
even if it is the cause of my ruin.” 

“Ay, I for one won’t yield one farthing to the cruel 
brutes ; they’re more like wild beasts than human beings.” 

(Well, who might have made them different ?) 

“ I say, Carson, just go and tell Buncombe of this fresh 
instance of their abominable conduct. He’s wavering, but 
I think this will decide him.” 

The door was now opened, and the waiter announced 
that the men were below, and asked if it were the pleasure 
of the gentlemen that they should be shown up. 

They assented, and rapidly took their places round the 
official table ; looking as like as they could to the Eoman 
senators who awaited the irruption of Brennus and his 
Gauls. 

Tramp, tramp, came the heavy clogged feet up the stairs ; 
and in a minute five wild, earnest-looking’ men stood in the 
room. John Barton, from some mistake as to time, was not 
among them. Had they been larger-boned men, you would 

210 


Meeting between Masters and Workmen 

have called them gaunt ; as it was, they were little of stature, 
and their fustian clothes hung loosely upon their shrunk 
limbs. In choosing their delegates, too, the operatives had 
had more regard to their brains, and power of speech, than 
to their wardrobes ; they might have read the opinions of 
that worthy Professor Teufelsdreck, in “ Sartor Eesartus,” 
to judge from the dilapidated coats and trousers, which yet 
clothed men of parts and of power. It was long since many 
of them had known the luxury of a new article of dress; 
and air-gaps were to be seen in their garments. Some of 
the masters were rather affronted at such a ragged detach- 
ment coming between the wind and their nobility ; but what 
cared they ? 

At the request of a gentleman hastily chosen to ofl&ciate 
as chairman, the leader of the delegates read, in a high- 
pitched, psalm -singing voice, a paper, containing the opera- 
tives’ statement of the case at issue, their complaints, 
and their demands, which last were not remarkable for 
moderation. 

He was then desired to withdraw for a few minutes, with 
his fellow-delegates, to another room, while the masters 
considered what should be their definite answer. 

When the men had left the room, a whispered earnest 
consultation took place, every one re-urging his former 
arguments. The conceders carried the day, but only by a 
majority of one. The minority haughtily and audibly ex- 
pressed their dissent from the measures to be adopted, even 
after the delegates re-entered the room ; their words and 
looks did not pass unheeded by the quick-eyed operatives ; 
their names were registered in bitter hearts. 

The masters could not consent to the advance demanded 
by the workmen. They would agree to give one shilling 
per week more than they had previously offered. Were the 
delegates empowered to accept such offer ? 

They were empowered to accept or decline any offer 
made that day by the masters. 

Then it might be as well for them to consult among 
211 


Mary Barton 

themselves as to what should be their decision. They again 
withdrew. 

It was not for long. They came back, and positively 
declined any compromise of their demands. 

Then up sprang Mr. Henry Carson, the head and voice 
of the violent party among the masters, and addressing the 
chairman, even before the scowling operatives, he proposed 
some ’ resolutions, which he, and those who agreed with 
him, had been concocting during this last absence of the 
deputation. 

They were, firstly, withdrawing the proposal just made, 
and declaring all communication between the masters and 
that particular Trades’ Union at an end ; secondly, declaring 
that no master would employ any workman in future, unless 
he signed a declaration that he did not belong to any Trades’ 
Union, and pledged himself not to assist or subscribe to any 
society, having for its object interference with the masters’ 
powers ; and, thirdly, that the masters should pledge them- 
selves to protect and encourage all workmen willing to accept 
employment on those conditions, and at the rate of wages 
first offered. Considering that the men who now stood 
listening with lowering brows of defiance were all of them 
leading members of the Union, such resolutions were in 
themselves sufficiently provocative of animosity; but not 
content with simply stating them, Harry Carson went on to 
characterise the conduct of the workmen in no measured 
terms ; every word he spoke rendering their looks more livid, 
their glaring eyes more fierce. One among them would have 
spoken, but checked himself, in obedience to the stem glance 
and pressure on his arm, received from the leader. Mr. 
Carson sat down, and a friend instantly got up to second 
the motion. It was carried, but far from unanimously. The 
chairman announced it to the delegates (who had been once 
more turned out of the room for a division). They received 
it with deep brooding silence, but spake never a word, and 
left the room without even a bow. 

Now there had been some by-play at this meeting, not 
212 


Meeting between Masters and Workmen 

recorded in the Manchester newspapers, which gave an 
account of the more regular part of the transaction. 

While the men had stood grouped near the door, on their 
first entrance, Mr. Harry Carson had taken out his silver 
pencil, and had drawn an admirable caricature of them — 
lank, ragged, dispirited, and famine- stricken. Underneath 
he wrote a hasty quotation from the fat knight’s well-known 
speech in Henry IV. He passed it to one of his neighbours, 
who acknowledged the likeness instantly, and by him it was 
sent round to others, who all smiled and nodded their heads. 
When it came back to its owner he tore the back of the letter 
on which it was drawn in two, twisted them up, and flung 
them into the fireplace ; but, careless whether they reached 
their aim or not, he did not look to see that they fell just 
short of any consuming cinders. 

This proceeding was closely observed by one of the men. 

He watched the masters as they left the hotel (laughing, 
some of them were, at passing jokes), and when all had 
gone, he re-entered. He went to the waiter, who recognised 
him. 

“ There’s a bit on a picture up yonder, as one o’ the 
gentlemen threw away; I’ve a little lad at home as dearly 
loves a picture ; by your leave I’ll go up for it.” 

The waiter, good-natured and sympathetic, accompanied 
him upstairs ; saw the paper picked up and untwisted, and 
then being convinced, by a hasty glance at its contents, that 
it was only what the man had called it, “a bit of a picture,” 
he allowed him to bear away his prize. 

Towards seven o’clock that evening, many operatives 
began to assemble in a room in the Weavers’ Arms public- 
house, a room appropriated for “ festive occasions,” as the 
landlord, in his circular, on opening the premises, had 
described it. But, alas ! it was on no festive occasion that 
they met there this night. Starved, irritated, despairing 
men, they were assembling to hear the answer that morning 
given by the masters to their delegates ; after which, as was 
stated in the notice, a gentleman from London would have 

213 


Mary Barton 

the honour of addressing the meeting on the present state of 
affairs between the employers and the employed, or (as he 
chose to term them) the idle and the industrious classes. 
The room was not large, hut its bareness of furniture made 
it appear so. Unshaded gas flared down upon the lean and 
unwashed artisans as they entered, their eyes blinking at the 
excess of light. 

They took their seats on benches, and awaited the deputa- 
tion. The latter, gloomily and ferociously, delivered the 
masters’ ultimatum, adding thereto not one word of their 
own ; and it sank all the deeper into the sore hearts of the 
listeners for their forbearance. 

Then the “ gentleman from London ” (who had been 
previously informed of the masters’ decision) entered. You 
would have been puzzled to define his exact position, or wha’t 
was the state of his mind as regarded education. He looked 
so self-conscious, so far from earnest, among the group of 
eager, fierce, absorbed men, among whom he now stood. 
He might have been a disgraced medical student of the Bob 
Sawyer class, or an unsuccessful actor, or a flashy shopman. 
The impression he would have given you would have been 
unfavourable, and yet there was much about him that could 
only be characterised as doubtful. 

He smirked in acknowledgment of their uncouth greetings, 
and sat down; then glancing round, he inquired whether 
it would not be agreeable to the gentlemen present to have 
pipes and liquor handed round, adding, that he would stand 
treat. 

As the man who has had his taste educated to love read- 
ing, falls devouringly upon books after a long abstinence, so 
these poor fellows, whose tastes had been left to educate 
themselves into a liking for tobacco, beer, and similar grati- 
fications, gleamed up at the proposal of the London delegate. 
Tobacco and drink deaden the pangs of hunger, and make 
one forget the miserable home, the desolate future. 

They were now ready to listen to him with approbation. 
He felt it ; and rising like a great orator, with his right arm 

214 


Meeting between Masters and Workmen 

outstretched, his left in the breast of his waistcoat, he began 
to declaim, with a forced theatrical voice. 

After a burst of eloquence, in which he blended the deeds 
of the elder and the younger Brutus, and magnified the re- 
sistless might of the “ millions of Manchester,” the Londoner 
descended to matter-of-fact business, and in his capacity this 
way he did not belie the good judgment of those who had 
sent him as delegate. Masses of people, when left to their 
own free choice, seem to have discretion in distinguishing 
men of natural talent ; it is a pity they so little regard temper 
and principles. He rapidly dictated resolutions, and sug- 
gested measures. He wrote out a stirring placard for the 
walls. He proposed sending delegates to entreat the assist- 
ance of other Trades’ Unions in other towns. He headed 
the list of subscribing Unions, by a liberal donation from 
that with which he was especially connected in London ; and 
what was more, and more uncommon, he paid down the 
money in real, clinking, blinking, golden sovereigns ! The 
money, alas ! was cravingly required ; but before alleviating 
any private necessities on the morrow, small sums were 
handed to each of the delegates, who were in a day or two 
to set out on their expeditions to Glasgow, Newcastle, 
Nottingham, &c. These men were most of them members 
of the deputation who had that morning waited upon the 
masters. After he had drawn up some letters, and spoken a 
few more stirring words, the gentleman from London with- 
drew, previously shaking hands all round ; and many speedily 
followed him out of the room, and out of the house. 

The newly appointed delegates, and one or two others, 
remained behind to talk over their respective missions, 
and to give and exchange opinions in more homely and 
natural language than they dared to use before the London 
orator. 

“He’s a rare chap, yon,” began one, indicating the 
departed delegate by a jerk of his thumb towards the door. 
“ He’s getten the gift of the gab, anyhow ! ” 

“ Ay ! ay 1 he knows what he’s about. See how he poured 

215 


Mary Barton 

it into us about that there Brutus. He were pretty hard, too, 
to kill his own son I ” 

“I could kill mine if he took part with the masters ; to 
be sure, he’s but a step-son, but that makes no odds,” said 
another. 

But now tongues were hushed, and all eyes were directed 
towards the member of the deputation who had that morning 
returned to the hotel to obtain possession of Harry Carson’s 
clever caricature of the operatives. 

The heads clustered together, to gaze at and detect the 
likenesses. 

“ That’s John Slater ! I’d ha’ known him anywhere, by 
his big nose. Lord! how like; that’s me, by G — d, it’s 
the very way I’m obligated to pin my waistcoat up, to hide 
that I’ve getten no shirt. That is a shame, and I’ll not 
stand it.” 

“ Well! ” said John Slater, after having acknowledged his 
nose and his likeness ; “I could laugh at a jest as well as 
e’er the best on ’em, though it did tell agen mysel, if I were 
not clemming ” (his eyes filled with tears ; he was a poor, 
pinched, sharp-featured man, with a gentle and melancholy 
expression of countenance), “ and if I could keep from think- 
ing of them at home, as is clemming ; but with their cries 
for food ringing in my ears, and making me afeard of going 
home, and wonder if I should hear ’em wailing out, if I lay 
cold and drowned at th’ bottom o’ th’ canal there, — why, 
man, I cannot laugh at aught. It seems to make me sad 
that there is any as can make game on what they’ve never 
knowed ; as can make such laughable pictures on men, whose 
very hearts within ’em are so raw and sore as ours were and 
are, God help us.” 

John Barton began to speak ; they turned to him with 
great attention. “ It makes me more than sad, it makes my 
heart burn within me, to see that folk can make a jest of 
striving men ; of chaps who corned to ask for a bit o’ fire for 
th’ old granny, as shivers i’ th’ cold ; for a bit o’ bedding, 
and some warm clothing to the poor wife who lies in labour 

216 


Meeting between Masters and Workmen 

on th’ damp flags; and for victuals for the childer, whose 
little voices are getting too faint and weak to cry aloud wi’ 
hunger. For, brothers, is not them the things we ask for 
when we ask for more wage ? We donnot want dainties, we 
want bellyfuls ; we donnot want gimcrack coats and waist- 
coats, we want warm clothes ; and so that we get ’em, we’d 
not quarrel wi’ what they’re made on. We donnot want 
their grand houses, we want a roof to cover us from the 
rain, and the snow, and the storm; ay, and not alone to 
cover us, but the helpless ones that cling to us in the keen 
wind, and ask us with their eyes why we brought ’em into 
th’ world to suffer ? ” He lowered his deep voice almost to 
a whisper — 

“I’ve seen a father who had killed his child rather than 
let it clem before his eyes; and he were a tender-hearted 
man.” 

He began again in his usual tone. “We come to th’ 
masters wi’ full hearts, to ask for them things I named afore. 
We know that they’ve getten money, as we’ve earned for 
’em ; we know trade is mending, and they’ve large orders, 
for which they’ll be well paid ; we ask for our share o’ th’ 
payment ; for, say we, if th’ masters get our share of pay- 
ment it will only go to keep servants and horses — to more 
dress and pomp. Well and good, if yo choose to be fools 
we’ll not hinder you, so long as you’re just ; but our share 
we must and will have ; we’ll not be cheated. We want it 
for daily bread, for life itself; and not for our own lives 
neither (for there’s many a one here, I know by mysel, as 
would be glad and thankful to lie down and die out o’ this 
weary world), but for the lives of them little ones, who don’t 
yet know what life is, and are afeard of death. Well, we 
come before th’ masters to state what we want, and what we 
must have, afore we’ll set shoulder to their work ; and they 
say, ‘ No.’ One would think that would be enough of hard- 
heartedness, but it isn’t. They go and make jesting pictures 
on us ! I could laugh at mysel, as well as poor John Slater 
there ; but then I must be easy in my mind to laugh. Now 

217 


Mary Barton 

I only know that I would give the last drop of my blood to 
avenge us on yon chap, who had so little feeling in him as 
to make game on earnest, suffering men ! ” 

A low angry murmur was heard among the men, but it 
did not yet take form or words. John continued — 

“ You’ll wonder, chaps, how I came to miss the time this 
morning ; I’ll just tell you what I was a-doing. Th’ chaplain 
at the New Bailey sent and gived me an order to see Jonas 
Higginbotham ; him as was taken up last week for throwing 
vitriol in a knob-stick’s face. Well, I couldn’t help but go ; 
and I didn’t reckon it would ha’ kept me so late. Jonas were 
like one crazy when I got to him ; he said he could na get 
rest night or day for th’ face of the poor fellow he had 
damaged; then he thought on his weak, clemmed look, as 
he tramped, footsore, into town ; and Jonas thought, maybe, 
he had left them at home as would look for news, and hope 
and get none, but, haply, tidings of his death. Well, Jonas 
had thought on these things till he could not rest, but walked 
up and down continually like a wild beast in his cage. At 
last he bethought him on a way to help a bit, and he got the 
chaplain to send for me ; and he tell’d me this ; and that th’ 
man were lying in the Infirmary, and he bade me go (to-day’s 
the day as folk may be admitted into th’ Infirmary) and get 
his silver watch, as was his mother’s, and sell it as well as I 
could, and take the money, and bid the poor knob -stick send 
it to his friends beyond Burnley ; and I were to take him 
Jonas’s kind regards, and he humbly axed him to forgive 
him. So I did what Jonas wished. But bless your life, 
none on us would ever throw vitriol again (at least at a 
knob-stick) if they could see the sight I saw to-day. The 
man lay, his face all wrapped in cloths, so I didn’t see that : 
but not a limb, nor a bit of a limb, could keep from quivering 
with pain. He would ha’ bitten his hand to keep down his 
moans, but couldn’t, his face hurt him so if he moved it e’er 
so little. He could scarce mind me when I telled him about 
Jonas ; he did squeeze my hand when I jingled the money, 
but wheji I axed his wife’s name, he shrieked out, ‘ Mary, 

218 


Meeting between Masters and Workmen 

shall I never see you again ? Mary, my darling, 
they’ve made me blind because I wanted to work for you and 
our own baby ; 0 Mary, Mary ! ’ Then the nurse came, and 
said he were raving, and that I had made him worse. And 
I’m afeard it was true ; yet I were loth to go without know- 
ing where to send the money. ... So that kept me beyond 
my time, chaps.” 

“ Did you hear where the wife lived at last ? ” asked many 
anxious voices. 

“ No ! he went on talking to her, till his words cut my 
heart like a knife. I axed th’ nurse to find out who she was, 
and where she lived. But what I’m more especial naming 
it now for is this, — for one thing I wanted you all to know 
why I weren’t at my post this morning ; for another, I wish 
to say, that I, for one, ha’ seen enough of what comes of 
attacking knob-sticks, and I’ll ha’ nought to do with it no 
more.” 

There were some expressions of disapprobation, but John 
did not mind them. 

“ Nay ! I’m no coward,” he replied, “ and I’m true to th’ 
backbone. What I would like, and what I would do, would 
be to fight the masters. There’s one among yo called me a 
coward. Well ! every man has a right to his opinion ; but 
since I’ve thought on th’ matter to-day, I’ve thought we han 
all on us been more like cowards in attacking the poor like 
ourselves ; them as has none to help, but mun choose between 
vitriol and starvation. I say we’re more cowardly in doing 
that than in leaving them alone. No ! what I would do is 
this. Have at the masters ! ” Again he shouted, “ Have at 
the masters ! ” He spoke lower ; all listened with hushed 
breath — 

“ It's the masters as has wrought this woe ; it’s the 
masters as should pay for it. ^ Him as called me coward just 
now, may try if I am one or not. Set me to serve out the 
masters, and see if there’s aught I’ll stick at. 

“ It would give the masters a bit on a fright if one of 
them were beaten within an inch of his life,” said one. 

219 


Mary Barton 

“ Ay ! or beaten till no life were left in him,” growled 
another. 

And so with words, or looks that told more than words, 
they built up a deadly plan. Deeper and darker grew the 
import of their speeches, as they stood hoarsely muttering 
their meaning out, and glaring, with eyes that told the terror 
their own thoughts were to them, upon their neighbours. 
Their clenched fists, their set teeth, their livid looks, all told 
the suffering which their minds were voluntarily undergoing 
in the contemplation of crime, and in familiarising themselves 
with its details. 

Then came one of those fierce terrible oaths which bind 
members of Trades’ Unions to any given purpose. Then 
under the flaring gaslight, they met together to consult 
further. With the distrust of guilt, each was suspicious of 
his neighbour ; each dreaded the treachery of another. A 
number of pieces of paper (the identical letter on which the 
caricature had been drawn that very morning) were tom up, 
and one was marked. Then all were folded up again, looking 
exactly alike. They were shuffled together in a hat. The 
gas was extinguished ; each drew out a paper. The gas was 
re-lighted. Then each went as far as he could from his 
fellows, and examined the paper he had drawn without say- 
ing a word, and with a countenance as stony and immovable 
as he could make it. 

Then, still rigidly silent, they each took up their hats and 
went every one his own way. 

He who had drawn the marked paper had drawn the lot 
of the assassin ! and he had sworn to act according to his 
dravnng! But no one, save God and his own conscience, 
knew who was the appointed murderer. 

4 


220 


Barton’s Night-Errand 


CHAPTEE XVII 

baeton’s night ekeand 

“ Mournful is’t to say Farewell, 

Though for few brief hours we part ; 

In that absence, who can tell 
What may come to wring the heart 1 ” 

Anonymous. 

The events recorded in the last chapter took place on a 
Tuesday. On Thursday afternoon Mary was surprised, in 
the midst of some little bustle in which she was engaged, by 
the entrance of Will Wilson. He looked strange, at least it 
was strange to see any different expression on his face to his 
usual joyous beaming appearance. He had a paper parcel in 
his hand. He came in, and sat down, more quietly than usual. 

“ Why, Will ! what’s the matter with you ? You seem 
quite cut up about something ! ” 

“ And I am, Mary ! I’m come to say good-bye ; and few 
folk like to say good-bye to them they love.” 

“ Good-bye ! Bless me, Will, that’s sudden, isn’t it ? ” 

Mary left off ironing, and came and stood near the fire- 
place. She had always liked Will ; but now it seemed as if 
a sudden spring of sisterly love had gushed up in her heart, 
so sorry did she feel to hear of his approaching departure. 

“ It’s very sudden, isn’t it ? ” said she, repeating the 
question. 

“ Yes, it’s very sudden,” said he dreamily. “ No, it isn’t ; ” 
rousing himself to think of what he was saying. “ The captain 
told me in a fortnight he would be ready to sail again ; but it 
comes very sudden on me, I had got so fond of you all.” 

Mary understood the particular fondness that was thus 
generalised. She spoke again. 

“ But it’s not a fortnight since you came. Not a fortnight 
since you knocked at Jane Wilson’s door, and I was there, 
you remember. Nothing like a fortnight ! ” 

221 


Mary Barton 

“ No ; I know it’s not. But, you see, I got a letter this 
afternoon from Jack Harris, to tell me our ship sails on 
Tuesday next ; and it’s long since I promised my uncle (my 
mother’s brother, him that lives at Kirk-Christ, beyond 
Eamsay, in the Isle of Man) that I’d go and see him and his, 
this time of coming ashore. I must go. I’m sorry enough ; 
but I mustn’t slight poor mother’s friends. I must go. 
Don’t try to keep me,” said he, evidently fearing the strength 
of his own resolution, if hard pressed by entreaty. 

“ I’m not a-going. Will. I dare say you’re right ; only I 
can’t help feeling sorry you’re going away. It seems so flat 
to be left behind. When do you go ? ” 

“ To-night. I shan’t see you again.” 

“ To-night ! and you go to Liverpool ! Maybe you and 
father will go together. He’s going to Glasgow, by way of 
Liverpool.” 

“ No ! I’m walking ; and I don’t think your father will 
be up to walking.” 

“ Well ! and why on earth are you walking ? You can 
get by railway for three-and-sixpence.” 

“ Ay, but Mary ! (thou mustn’t let out what I’m going to 
tell thee) I haven’t got three shillings, no, nor even a sixpence 
left, at least, not here; before I came I gave my landlady 
enough to carry me to the island and back, and maybe a trifle 
for presents, and I brought the rest here ; and it’s all gone 
but this,” jingling a few coppers in his hand. 

“Nay, never fret over my walking a matter of thirty 
mile,” added he, as he saw she looked grave and sorry. 
“It’s a fine clear night, and I shall set off betimes, and get 
in afore the Manx packet sails. Where’s your father going ? 
To Glasgow did you say ? Perhaps he and I may have a 
bit of a trip together then, for, if the Manx boat has sailed 
when I get into Liverpool, I shall go by a Scotch packet. 
What’s he going to do in Glasgow ? — Seek for work ? Trade 
is as bad there as here, folk say.” 

“No; he knows that,” answered Mary sadly. “ I some- 
times think he’ll never get work again, and that trade will 

222 


Barton’s Night-Errand 

never mend. It’s very hard to keep up one’s heart. I wish 
I were a boy, I’d go to sea with you. It would be getting 
away from bad news at any rate ; and now, there’s hardly a 
creature that crosses the door-step, but has something sad 
and unhappy to tell one. Father is going as a delegate from 
his Union, to ask help from the Glasgow folk. He’s starting 
this evening.” 

Mary sighed, for the feeling again came over her that it 
was very flat to be left alone. 

“ You say no one crosses the threshold but has something 
sad to say ; you don’t mean that Margaret Jennings has any 
trouble ? ” asked the young sailor anxiously. 

“No!” replied Mary, smiling a httle ; “she’s the only 
one I know, I believe, who seems free from care. Her 
blindness almost appears a blessing sometimes ; she was so 
down-hearted when she dreaded it, and now she seems so 
calm and happy when it’s downright come. No 1 Margaret’s 
happy I do think.” 

“ I could almost wish it had been otherwise,” said Will 
thoughtfully. “ I could have been so glad to comfort her, 
and cherish her, if she had been in trouble.” 

“ And why can’t you cherish her, even though she is 
happy ? ” asked Mary. 

“ Oh I I don’t know. She seems so much better than 
I am I And her voice ! When I hear it, and think of the 
wishes that are in my heart, it seems as much out of place 
to ask her to be my wife, as it would be to ask an angel 
from heaven.” 

Mary could not help laughing outright, in spite of her 
depression, at the idea of Margaret as an angel ; it was so 
difficult (even to her dressmaking imagination) to fancy 
where, and how, the wings would be fastened to the brown 
stuff gown, or the blue and yellow print. 

Will laughed, too, a little, out of sympathy with Mary’s 
pretty merry laugh. Then he said — 

“ Ay, you may laugh, Mary : it only shows you’ve never 
been in love.” 


223 


Mary Barton 

In an instant Mary was carnation colour, and the tears 
sprang to her soft grey eyes. She that was suffering so 
much from the doubts arising from love ! It was unkind 
of him. He did not notice her change of look and of 
complexion. He only noticed that she was silent, so he 
continued — 

“ I thought — I think, that when I come back from this 
voyage, I will speak. It’s my fourth voyage in the same 
ship and with the same captain, and he’s promised he’ll 
make me a second mate after this trip ; then I shall have 
something to offer Margaret ; and her grandfather, and aunt 
Alice, shall live with her, and keep her from being lonesome 
while I’m at sea. I’m speaking as if she cared for me, and 
would marry me; d’ye think she does care at all for me, 
Mary ? ” asked he anxiously. 

Mary had a very decided opinion of her own on the 
subject, but she did not feel as if she had any right to give 
it. So she said — 

“ You must ask Margaret, not me. Will ; she’s never 
named your name to me.” His countenance fell. “ But I 
should say that was a good sign from a girl like her ; I’ve 
no right to say what I think ; but, if I was you, I would not 
leave her now without speaking.” 

“ No ! I cannot speak ! I have tried. I’ve been in to 
wish them good-bye, and my voice stuck in my throat. I 
could say nought of what I’d planned to say ; and I never 
thought of being so bold as to offer her marriage till I’d been 
my next trip, and been made mate. I could not even offer 
her this box,” said he, undoing his paper parcel and dis- 
playing a gaudily ornamented accordion ; “I longed to buy 
her something, and I thought, if it were something in the 
music line, she would maybe fancy it more. So, will you 
give it to her, Mary, when I’m gone ? and, if you can slip 
in something tender, — something, you know, of what I feel — 
maybe she would listen to you, Mary.” 

Mary promised that she would do all that he asked. 

“I shall be thinking on her many and many a night, 
224 


Barton’s Night-Errand 

when I’m keeping my watch in mid-sea ; I wonder if she 
will ever think on me, when the wind is whistling, and the 
gale rising. You’ll often speak of me to her, Mary ? And 
if I should meet with any mischance, tell her how dear, 
how very dear, she was to me, and bid her, for the sake of 
one who loved her well, try and comfort my poor aunt Alice. 
Dear old aunt ! you and Margaret will often go and see her, 
won’t you? She’s sadly failed since I was last ashore. 
And so good as she has been ! When I lived with her, a 
little wee chap, I used to be weakened by the neighbours 
knocking her up ; this one was ill, and that body’s child was 
restless ; and for as tired as ever she might be, she would 
be up and dressed in a twinkling, never thinking of the hard 
day’s wash afore her next morning. Them were happy 
times ! How pleased I used to be when she would take me 
into the fields with her to gather herbs ! I’ve tasted tea in 
China since then, but it wasn’t half so good as the herb tea 
she used to make for me o’ Sunday nights. And she knew 
such a deal about plants and birds, and their ways. She 
used to tell me long stories about her childhood, and we 
used to plan how we would go some time, please God (that 
was always her word), and live near her old home beyond 
Lancaster ; in the very cottage where she was bom, if we 
could get it. Dear ! and how different it is ! Here is she 
still in a back street o’ Manchester, never likely to see her own 
home again ; and I, a sailor, off for America next week. I 
wish she had been able to go to Burton once afore she died.” 

“ She would maybe have found all sadly changed,” said 
Mary, though her heart echoed Will’s feeling. 

“Ay! ay! I dare say it’s best. One thing I do wish 
though, and I have often wished it when out alone on the 
deep sea, when even the most thoughtless can’t choose but 
think on th’ past and th’ future ; and that is, that I’d never 
grieved her. O Mary ! many a hasty word comes sorely 
back on the heart, when one thinks one shall never see the 
person whom one has grieved again ! ” 

They both stood thinking. Suddenly Mary started. 

225 Q 


Mary Barton 

“ That’s father’s step. And his shirt’s not ready ! ’• 

She hurried to her irons, and tried to make up for lost 
time. 

John Barton came in. Such a haggard and wildly anxious- 
looking man Will thought he had never seen. He looked 
at Will, hut spoke no word of greeting or welcome. 

“I’m come to bid you good-bye,” said the sailor, and 
would in his sociable friendly humour have gone on speaking. 
But John answered abruptly — 

“ Good-bye to ye, then.” 

There was that in his manner which left no doubt of his 
desire to get rid of the visitor, and Will accordingly shook 
hands with Mary, and looked at John, as if doubting how 
far to offer to shake hands with him. But he met with no 
answering glance or gesture, so he went his way, stopping 
for an instant at the door to say — 

“ You’ll think on me on Tuesday, Mary. That’s the day 
we shall hoist our blue Peter, Jack Harris says.” 

Mary was heartily sorry when the door closed ; it seemed 
like shutting out a friendly sunbeam. And her father ! what 
could be the matter with him? He was so restless; not 
speaking (she wished he would), but starting up and then 
sitting down, and meddling with her irons; he seemed so 
fierce, too, to judge from his face. She wondered if he dis- 
liked Will being there ; or if he were vexed to find that she 
had not got further on with her work. At last she could 
bear his nervous way no longer, it made her equally nervous 
and fidgety. She would speak. 

“ When are you going, father ? I don’t know the time 
o’ the trains.” 

“ And why shouldst thou know ? ” replied he gruffly, 
“ Meddle with thy ironing, but donnot be asking questions 
about what doesn’t concern thee.” 

“ I wanted to get you something to eat first,” answered 
she gently. 

“ Thou dost not know that I’m laming to do without 
food,” said he. 


226 


Barton’s Night-Errand 

Mary looked at him to see if he spoke jestingly. No ! he 
looked savagely grave. 

She finished her bit of ironing, and began preparing the 
food she was sure her father needed ; for by this time her 
experience in the degrees of hunger had taught her that his 
present irritability was increased, if not caused, by want of 
food. 

He had had a sovereign given him to pay his expenses 
as delegate to Glasgow, and out of this he had given Mary 
a few shillings in the morning ; so she had been able to buy 
a sufficient meal, and now her care was to cook it so as to 
tempt him. 

“ If thou’rt doing that for me, Mary, thou mayst spare 
thy labour. I tolled thee I were not for eating.” 

“ Just a little bit, father, before starting,” coaxed Mary 
perseveringly. 

At that instant who should come in but Job Legh. It 
was not often he came, but when he did pay visits, Mary 
knew from past experience they were anything but short. 
Her father’s countenance fell back into the deep gloom from 
which it was but just emerging at the sound of Mary’s sweet 
voice, and pretty pleading. He became again restless and 
fidgety, scarcely giving Job Legh the greeting necessary for 
a host in his own house. Job, however, did not stand upon 
ceremony. He had come to pay a visit, and was not to be 
daunted from his purpose. He was interested in John 
Barton’s mission to Glasgow, and wanted to hear all about 
it; so he sat down, and made himself comfortable, in a 
manner that Mary saw was meant to be stationary. 

“ So thou’rt off to Glasgow, art thou ? ” he began his 
catechism. 

“ Ay.” 

“ When art starting ? ” 

“ To-night.” 

“ That I knowed. But by what train ? ” 

That was just what Mary wanted to know ; but what 
apparently her father was in no mood to tell He got up 

227 


Mary Barton 

without speaking, and went upstairs. Mary knew from his 
step, and his way, how much he was put out, and feared J oh 
would see it too ! But no ! Job seemed imperturbable. So 
much the better, and perhaps she could cover her father’s 
rudeness by her own civility to so kind a friend. 

So, half -listening to her father’s movements upstairs 
(passionate, violent, restless motions they were), and half- 
attending to Job Legh, she tried to pay him all due regard. 

“ When does thy father start, Mary ? ” 

That plaguing question again. 

“ Oh ! very soon. I’m just getting him a bit of supper. 
Is Margaret very well ? ” 

“ Yes, she’s well enough. She’s meaning to go and keep 
Alice Wilson company for an hour or so this evening: as 
soon as she thinks her nephew will have started for Liver- 
pool ; for she fancies the old woman will feel a bit lonesome. 
Th’ Union is paying for your father, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes, they’ve given him a sovereign. You’re one of th’ 
Union, Job?” 

“ Ay t I’m one, sure enough ; but I’m but a sleeping 
partner in the concern. I were obliged to become a member 
for peace, else I don’t go along with ’em. Yo see they think 
themselves wise, and me silly, for differing with them. Well ! 
there’s no harm in that. But then they won’t let me be silly 
in peace and quietness, but will force me to be as wise as 
they are ; now that’s not British liberty I say. I’m forced 
to be wise according to their notions, else they parsecute me, 
and sarve me out.” 

What could her father be doing upstairs ? Tramping and 
banging about. Why did he not come down ? Or why did 
not Job go ? The supper would be spoilt. 

But Job had no notion of going. 

“ You see my folly is this, Mary. I would take what I 
could get; I think half a loaf is better than no bread. I 
would work for low wages rather than sit idle and starve. 
But, comes the Trades’ Union, and says, ‘ Well, if you take 
the half-loaf, we’ll worry you out of your life. Will you be 

228 


Barton’s Night-Errand 

clemmed, or will you be worried ? ’ Now clemming is a 
quiet death, and worrying isn’t, so I choose clemming, and 
come into th’ Union. But I wish they’d leave me free, if I 
am a fool.” 

Creak, creak, went the stairs. Her father was coming 
down at last. 

Yes, he came down, but more doggedly fierce than before, 
and made up for his journey, too ; with his little bundle on 
his arm. He went up to Job, and, more civilly than Mary 
expected, wished him good-bye. He then turned to her, and 
in a short cold manner, bade her farewell. 

“ Oh ! father, don’t go yet. Your supper is all ready. 
Stay one moment.” 

But he pushed her away, and was gone. She followed 
him to the door, her eyes blinded by sudden tears ; she stood 
there looking after him. He was so strange, so cold, so hard. 
Suddenly, at the end of the court, he turned, and saw her 
standing there ; he came back quickly, and took her in his 
arms. 

“ God bless thee, Mary ! — God in heaven bless thee, poor 
child ! ” She threw her arms round his neck. 

“ Don’t go yet, father ; I can’t bear you to go yet. Come 
* in, and eat some supper ; you look so ghastly ; dear father, 
do ! ” 

“ No,”- he said, faintly and mournfully. “ It’s best as it 
is. I couldn’t eat, and it’s best to be off. I cannot be still 
at home. I must be moving.” 

So saying, he unlaced her soft twining arms, and kissing 
her once more, set off on his fierce errand. 

And he was out of sight ! She did not know why, but 
she had never before felt so depressed, so desolate. She 
turned in to Job, who sat there still. Her father, as soon as 
he was out of sight, slackened his pace, and fell into that 
heavy listless step which told, as well as words could do, 
of hopelessness and weakness. It was getting dark, but he 
loitered on, returning no greeting to any one. 

A child’s cry caught his ear. His thoughts were running 
2jg 


Mary Barton 

on little Tom ; on the dead and buried child of happier years. 
He followed the sound of wail, that might have been his, and 
found a poor httle mortal, who had lost his way, and whose 
grief had choked up his thoughts to the single want. 
“ Mammy, mammy.” With tender address, John Barton 
soothed the little laddie, and with beautiful patience he 
gathered fragments of meaning from the half-spoken words 
which came mingled with sobs from the terrified little heart. 
So, aided by inquiries here and there from a passer-by, he 
led and carried the little fellow home, where his mother had 
been too busy to miss him, but now received him with thank- 
fulness, and with an eloquent Irish blessing. When John 
heard the words of blessing, he shook his head mournfully 
and turned away to retrace his steps. 

Let us leave him. 

Mary took her sewing after he had gone, and sat on, and 
sat on, trying to listen to Job, who was more inclined to talk 
than usual. She had conquered her feeling of impatience 
towards him so far as to be able to offer him her father’s 
rejected supper ; and she even tried to eat herself. But her 
heart failed her. A leaden weight seemed to hang over her ; 
a sort of presentiment of evil, or perhaps only an excess of 
low-spirited feeling in consequence of the two departures- 
which had taken place that afternoon. 

She wondered how long Job Legh would sit. She did not 
like putting down her work, and crying before him, and yet 
she had never in her life longed so much to be alone in order 
to indulge a good hearty burst of tears. 

“ Well, Mary,” she suddenly caught him saying, “ I 
thought you’d be a bit lonely to-night ; and as Margaret 
were going to cheer th’ old woman, I said I’d go and keep 
th' young ’un company ; and a very pleasant chatty evening 
we’ve had ; very. Only I wonder as Margaret is not come 
back.” 

“ But perhaps she is,” suggested Mary. 

“No, no, I took care o’ that. Look ye here ! ” and he 
pulled out the great house-key. “ She’ll have to stand waiting 

230 


Barton’s Night-Errand 

i’ th’ street, and that I’m sure she wouldn’t do, when she 
knew where to find ihe.” 

“ Will she come back by hersel ? ” asked Mary. 

“ Ay. At first I were afraid o’ trusting her, and I used 
to follow her a bit behind ; never letting on, of course. But, 
bless you ! she goes along as steadily as can be ; rather slow 
to be sure, and her head a bit on one side, as if she were 
listening. And it’s real beautiful to see her cross the road. 
She’ll wait above a bit to hear that all is still ; not that she’s 
so dark as not to see a coach or a cart like a big black thing, 
but she can’t rightly judge how far off it is by sight, so she 
listens. Hark ! that’s her ! ” 

Yes; in she came, with her usually calm face all tear- 
stained and sorrow-marked. 

“ What’s the matter, my wench ? ” said Job hastily. 

“O grandfather! Alice Wilson’s so bad!” She could 
say no more for her breathless agitation. The afternoon, 
and the parting with Will, had weakened her nerves for any 
after-shock. 

“ What is it ? Do tell us, Margaret ! ” said Mary, placing 
her in a chair, and loosening her bonnet-strings. 

“ I think it’s a stroke o’ the palsy. Any rate she has lost 
the use of one side.” 

“ Was it afore Will had set off ? ” asked Mary. 

“No, he were gone before I got there,” said Margaret ; 
“ and she were much about as well as she has been for many 
a day. She spoke a bit, but not much ; but that were only 
natural, for Mrs. Wilson likes to have the talk to hersel, you 
know. She got up to go across the room, and then I heard 
a drag wi’ her leg, and presently a fall, and Mrs. Wilson 
came running, and set up such a cry ! I stopped wi’ Alice, 
while she fetched a doctor; but she could not speak, to 
answer me, though she tried, I think.” 

“Where was Jem? Why didn’t he go for the 
doctor ? ” 

“ He were out when I got there, and he never came home 
while I stopped.” 


231 


Mary Barton 

“ Thou’st never left Mrs. Wilson alone wi’ poor Alice ? ” 
asked Job hastily. 

“ No, no,” said Margaret. “ But oh ! grandfather, it’s 
now I feel how hard it is to have lost my sight. I should 
have so loved to nurse her ; and I did try, until I found I did 
more harm than good. O grandfather ; if I could but see 1 ” 

She sobbed a httle ; and they let her give that ease to her 
heart. Then she went on — 

“ No ! I went round by Mrs. Davenport’s, and she were 
hard at work ; but, the minute I told my errand, she were 
ready and wilhng to go to Jane Wilson, and stop up all night 
with Alice.” 

“ And what does the doctor say ? ” asked Mary. 

“ Oh ! much what all doctors say : he puts a fence on 
this side, and a fence on that, for fear he should be caught 
tripping in his judgment. One moment he does not think 
there’s much hope — but while there is life there is hope ! th’ 
next he says he should think she might recover partial — but 
her age is again her. He’s ordered her leeches to her head.” 

Margaret having told her tale, leant back with weariness, 
both of body and mind. Mary hastened to make her a cup 
of tea ; while Job, lately so talkative, sat quiet and mourn- 
fully silent. 

“ I’ll go first thing to-morrow morning, and learn how she 
is ; and I’ll bring word back before I go to work,” said Mary. 

“ It’s a bad job Will’s gone,” said Job. 

“ Jane does not think she knows any one,” replied Mar- 
garet. “ It’s perhaps as well he shouldn’t see her now, for 
they say her face is sadly drawn. He’ll remember her with 
her own face better, if he does not see her again.” 

With a few more sorrowful remarks they separated for 
the night, and Mary was left alone in her house, to meditate 
on the heavy day that had passed over her head. Everything 
seemed going wrong. Will gone; her father gone— and so 
strangely too ! And to a place so mysteriously distant as 
Glasgow seemed to be to her ! She had felt his presence as 
a protection against Harry Carson and his threats ; and now 

232 


Murder 

she dreaded lest he should learn she was alone. Her heart 
began to despair, too, about Jem. She feared he had ceased 
to love her ; and she — she only loved him more and more 
for his seeming neglect. And, as if all this aggregate of 
sorrowful thoughts was not enough, here was this new woe, 
of poor Alice’s paralytic stroke. 


CHAPTEE XVIII 

MURDEK 

“ But in his pulse there was no throb, 

Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
Heralded his way to death.” 

“ Siege op Corinth.” 

My brain runs this way and that way ; ’twill not fix 
On aught but vengeance.” 

“Duke op Guise.” 

I MUST now go back to an hour or two before Mary and her 
friends parted for the night. It might be about eight o’clock 
that evening, and the three Miss Carsons were sitting in their 
father’s drawing-room. He was asleep in the dining-room, 
in his own comfortable chair. Mrs. Carson was (as was usual 
with her, when no particular excitement was going on) very 
poorly, and sitting upstairs in her dressing-room, indulging 
in the luxury of a headache. She was not well, certainly. 
“ Wind in the head,” the servants called it. But it was but 
the natural consequence of the state of mental and bodily 
idleness in which she was placed. Without education enough 
to value the resources of wealth and leisure, she was so 
circumstanced as to command both. It would have done 
her more good than all the ether and sal-volatile she was. 
daily in the habit of swallowing, if she might have taken the 

233 


Mary Barton 

work of one of her own housemaids for a week ; made beds, 
rubbed tables, shaken carpets, and gone out into the fresh 
morning air, without all the paraphernalia of shawl, cloak, 
boa, fur boots, bonnet, and veil, in which she was equipped 
before setting out for an “ airing,” in the closely shut-up 
carriage. 

So the three girls were by themselves in the comfortable, 
elegant, well-lighted drawing-room ; and, like many similarly 
situated young ladies, they did not exactly know what to do 
to while away the time until the tea-hour. The elder two 
had been at a dancing-party the night before, and were 
listless and sleepy in consequence. One tried to read 
“ Emerson’s Essays,” and fell asleep in the attempt ; the 
other was turning over a parcel of new songs, in order to 
select what she liked. Amy, the youngest, was copying some 
manuscript music. The air was heavy with the fragrance of 
strongly- scented flowers, which sent out their night odours 
from an adjoining conservatory. 

The clock on the chimney-piece chimed eight. Sophy 
(the sleeping sister) started up at the sound. 

“ What o’clock is that ? ” she asked. 

“ Eight,” said Amy. 

“ O dear ! how tired I am ! Is Harry come in ? Tea will 
rouse one up a httle. Are you not worn out, Helen ? ” 

“ Yes ; I am tired enough. One is good for nothing the 
day after a dance. Yet I don’t feel weary at the time; I 
suppose it is the lateness of the hours.” 

“ And yet, how could it be managed otherwise ? So many 
don’t dine till five or six, that one cannot begin before eight 
or nine ; and then it takes a long time to get into the spirit 
of the evening. It is always more pleasant after supper than 
before.” 

“ Well, I’m too tired to-night to reform the world in 
the matter of dances or balls. What are you copying, 
Amy?” 

“ Only that little Spanish air you sing, ‘ Quien quiera.’ ” 

“ What are you copying it for? ” asked Helen. 

234 


Murder 

“ Harry asked me to do it for him this morning at break- 
fast-time — for Miss Eichardson, he said.” 

“For Jane Eichardson!” said Sophy, as if a new idea 
were receiving strength in her mind. 

“ Do you think Harry means anything by his attention to 
her ? ” asked Helen. 

“Nay, I do not know anything more than you do ; I 
can only observe and conjecture. What do you think, 
Helen ? ” 

“ Harry always likes to be of consequence to the belle of 
the room. If one girl is more admired than another, he likes 
to flutter about her, and seem to be on intimate terms with 
her. That is his way, and I have not noticed anything 
beyond that in his manner to Jane Eichardson.” 

“ But I don’t think she knows it’s only his way. Just 
watch her the next time we meet her when Harry is there, 
and see how she crimsons, and looks another way when she 
feels he is coming up to her. I think he sees it, too, and I 
think he is pleased with it.” 

“ I dare say Harry would like well enough to turn the 
head of such a lovely girl as Jane Eichardson. But I’m not 
convinced that he’s in love, whatever she may be.” 

“ Well, then 1 ” said Sophy indignantly, “ though it is our 
own brother, I do think he is behaving very wrongly. The 
more I think of it, the more sure I am that she thinks he 
means something, and that he intends her to think so. And 
then, when he leaves off paying her attention ” 

“ Which will be as soon as a prettier girl makes her 
appearance,” interrupted Helen. 

“ As soon as he leaves off paying her attention,” resumed 
Sophy, “ she will have many and many a heartache, and then 
she will harden herself into being a flirt, a feminine flirt, as 
he is a masculine flirt. Poor girl 1 ” 

“ I don’t like to hear you speak so of Harry,” said Amy, 
looking up at Sophy. 

“ And I don’t like to have to speak so, Amy, for I love 
him dearly. He is a good, kind brother, but I do think him 

235 


Mary Barton 

vain, and I think he hardly knows the misery, the crime, to 
which indulged vanity may lead him.” 

Helen yawned, 

“ Oh ! do you think we may ring for tea. Sleeping after 
dinner makes me so feverish.” 

“ Yes, surely. Why should not we ? ” said the more 
energetic Sophy, pulling the bell with some determination. 

“ Tea, directly, Parker,” said she authoritatively, as the 
man entered the room. 

She was too little in the habit of reading expressions on 
the faces of others to notice Parker’s countenance. 

Yet it was striking. It was blanched to a dead whiteness ; 
the lips compressed as if to keep within some tale of horror ; 
the eyes distended and unnatural. It was a terror-stricken 
face. 

The girls began to put away their music and books, in 
preparation for tea. The door slowly opened again, and this 
time it was the nurse who entered. I call her nurse, for such 
had been her office in bygone days, though now she held 
rather an anomalous situation in the family. Seamstress, 
attendant on the young ladies, keeper of the stores ; only 
“ Nurse ” was still her name. She had lived longer with 
them than any other servant, and to her their manner was 
far less haughty than to the other domestics. She occa- 
sionally came into the drawing-room to look for things 
belonging to their father or mother, so it did not excite any 
surprise when she advanced into the room. They went on 
arranging their various articles of employment. 

She wanted them to look up. She wanted them to read 
something in her face — her face so full of woe, of horror. 
But they went on without taking any notice. She coughed ; 
not a natural cough ; but one of those coughs which ask so 
plainly for remark. 

“ Dear nurse, what is the matter ? ” asked Amy. “ Are 
not you well ? ” 

“ Is mamma ill ? ” asked Sophy quickly. 

“ Speak, speak, nurse ! ” said they all, as they saw her 
236 


Murder 

efforts to articulate choked by the convulsive rising in her 
throat. They clustered round her vt^ith eager faces, catching 
a glimpse of some terrible truth to be revealed. 

“ My dear young ladies ! my dear girls ! ” she gasped out 
at length, and then she burst into tears. 

“ Oh ! do tell us what it is, nurse ! ” said one. “ Anything 
is better than this. Speak ! ” 

“ My children ! I don’t know how to break it to you. My 
dears, poor Mr. Harry is brought home ” 

“ Brought home — brought home — how ? ” Instinctively 
they sank their voices to a whisper ; but a fearful whisper it 
was. In the same low tone, as if afraid lest the walls, 
the furniture, the inanimate things which told of preparation 
for life and comfort, should hear, she answered — 

“ Dead ! ” 

Amy clutched her nurse’s arm, and fixed her eyes on her 
as if to know if such a tale could be true; and when she 
read its confirmation in those sad, mournful, unflinching 
eyes, she sank, without word or sound, down in a faint upon 
the floor. One sister sat down on an ottoman, and covered 
her face, to try and realise it. That was Sophy. Helen 
threw herself on the sofa, and burying her head in the 
pillows, tried to stifle the screams and moans which shook 
her frame. 

The nurse stood silent. She had not told all. 

“ Tell me,” said Sophy, looking up, and speaking in a 
hoarse voice, which told of the inward pain, “ tell me, nurse ! 
Is he dead, did you say ? Have you sent for a doctor ? Oh ! 
send for one, send for one,” continued she, her voice rising 
to shrillness, and starting to her feet. Helen lifted herself 
up, and looked, with breathless waiting, towards nurse. 

“ My dears, he is dead ! But I have sent for a doctor. 
I have done all I could.” 

“ When did he — when did they bring him home ? ” asked 
Sophy. 

“ Perhaps ten minutes ago. Before you rang for Parker.” 

“How did he die? Where did they find him? He 

237 


Mary Barton 

looked so well. He always seemed so strong. Oh ! are you 
sure he is dead ? ” 

She went towards the door. Nurse laid her hand on her 
arm. 

“ Miss Sophy, I have not told you all. Can you bear to 
hear it? Eemember, master is in the next room, and he 
knows nothing yet. Come, you must help me to tell him. 
Now, be quiet, dear ! It was no common death he died ! ” 
She looked in her face as if trying to convey her meaning by 
her eyes. 

Sophy’s lips moved, but nurse could hear no sound. 

“ He has been shot as he was coming home along Turner 
Street to-night.” 

Sophy went on with the motion of her lips, twitching 
them almost convulsively. 

“ My dear, you must rouse yourself, and remember your 
father and mother have yet to be told. Speak ! Miss 
Sophy ! ” 

But she could not ; her whole face worked involuntarily. 
The nurse left the room, and almost immediately brought 
back some sal-volatile and water. Sophy drank it eagerly, 
and gave one or two deep gasps. Then she spoke in a calm, 
unnatural voice. 

“ What do you want me to do, nurse ? Go to Helen, and 
poor Amy. See, they want help.” 

“ Poor creatures ! we must let them alone for a bit. 
You must go to master ; that’s what I want you to do. Miss 
Sophy. , You must break it to him, poor old gentleman ! 
Come, he’s asleep in the dining-room, and the men are 
waiting to speak to him.” 

Sophy went mechanically to the dining-room door. 

“ Oh ! I cannot go in. I cannot tell him. What must 
I say ? ” 

“ I’ll come with you, Miss Sophy. Break it to him by 
degrees.” 

“ I can’t, nurse. My head throbs so, I shall be sure to 
say the wrong thing.” 


238 


Murder 

However, she opened the door. There sat her father, the 
shaded light of the candle-lamp falling upon, and softening 
his marked features, while his snowy hair contrasted well 
with the deep crimson morocco of the chair. The newspaper 
he had been reading had dropped on the carpet by his side. 
He breathed regularly and deeply. 

At that instant the words of Mrs. Hemans’s song came 
full in Sophy’s mind — 

“Ye know not what ye do, 

That call the slmnberer back 
From the realms unseen by you, 

To life’s dim weary track.” 

But this Ufe’s track would be to the bereaved father 
something more than dim and weary, hereafterc 

“ Papa,” said she softly. He did not stir. 

“ Papa ! ” she exclaimed, somewhat louder. 

He started up, half awake. 

“ Tea is ready, is it ? ” and he yawned. 

“ No ! papa, but something very dreadful — very sad, has 
happened I ” 

He was gaping so loud that he did not catch the words 
she uttered, and did not see the expression of her face. 

“ Master Henry has not come back,” said nurse. Her 
voice, heard in unusual speech to him, arrested his attention, 
and rubbing his eyes, he looked at the servant. 

“ Harry ! oh, no ! he had to attend a meeting of the 
masters about these cursed turn-outs. I don’t expect him 
yet. What are you looking at me so strangely for, Sophy ? ” 

“ O papa, Harry is come back,” said she, bursting into 
tears. 

“ What do you mean ? ” said he, startled into an impatent 
consciousness that something was wrong. “One of you 
says he is not come home, and the other says he is. Now, 
that’s nonsense ! Tell me at once what’s the matter. Did 
he go on horseback to town ? Is he thrown ? Speak, child, 
can’t you ? ” 


239 


Mary Barton 

“ No ! he’s not been thrown, papa,” said Sophy sadly. 

“ But he’s badly hurt,” put in the nurse, desirous to be 
drawing his anxiety to a point. 

“ Hurt ? Where ? How ? Have you sent for a doctor ? ” 
said he, hastily rising, as if to leave the room. 

“ Yes, papa, we’ve sent for a doctor — but I’m afraid — I 
believe it’s of no use.” 

He looked at her for a moment, and in her face he read 
the truth. His son, his only son, was dead. 

He sank back in his chair, and hid his face in his hands, 
and bowed his head upon the table. The strong mahogany 
dining-table shook and rattled under his agony. 

Sophy went and put her arms round his bowed neck. 

“Go! you are not Harry,” said he; but the action 
roused him. 

“ Where is he ? where is the ” said he, with his strong 

face set into the lines of anguish, by two minutes of such 
intense woe. 

“ In the servants’ hall,” said nurse. “ Two policemen 
and another man brought him home. They would be glad 
to speak to you when you are able, sir.” 

“ I am now able,” replied he. At first when he stood up 
he tottered. But steadying himself, he walked, as firmly as 
a soldier on drill, to the door. Then he turned back and 
poured out a glass of wine from the decanter which yet 
remained on the table. His eye caught the wine-glass which 
Harry had used but two or three hours before. He sighed 
a long quivering sigh, and then mastering himself again, he 
left the room. 

“ You had better go back to your sisters. Miss Sophy,” 
said nurse. 

Miss Carson went. She could not face death yet. 

The nurse followed Mr. Carson to the servants’ hall. 
There on their dinner-table lay the poor dead body. The 
men who had brought it were sitting near the fire, while 
several of the servants stood round the table, gazing at the 
remains. 


240 


Murder 


The remains / 

One or two were crying ; one or two were whispering ; 
awed into a strange stillness of voice and action by the 
presence of the dead. When Mr. Carson came in they 
all drew back and looked at him with the reverence due 
to sorrow. 

He went forward and gazed long and fondly on the calm, 
dead face ; then he bent down and kissed the lips yet crimson 
with life. The policeman had advanced, and stood ready to 
be questioned. But at first the old man’s mind could only 
take in the idea of death ; slowly, slowly came the conception 
of violence, of murder. “ How did he die ? ” he groaned 
forth. 

The policemen looked at each other. Then one began, 
and stated that, having heard the report of a gun in Turner 
Street, he had turned down that way (a lonely unfrequented 
way Mr. Carson knew, but a short cut to his garden door, of 
which Harry had a key) ; that as he (the policeman) came 
nearer, he had heard footsteps as of a man running away ; 
but the evening was so dark (the moon not having yet risen) 
that he could see no one twenty yards off. That he had 
even been startled when close to the body by seeing it lying 
across the path at his feet. That he had sprung his rattle ; 
and when another policeman came up, by the light of the 
lantern they had discovered who it was that had been killed. 
That they believed him to be dead when they first took him 
up, as he had never moved, spoken, or breathed. That 
intelligence of the murder had been sent to the superintendent, 
who would probably soon be here. That two or three police- 
men were still about the place where the murder was 
committed, seeking out for some trace of the murderer. 
Having said this, they stopped speaking. 

Mr. Carson had listened attentively, never taking his eyes 
off the dead body. When they had ended, he said — 

“ Where was he shot ? ” 

They lifted up some of the thick chestnut curls, and 
showed a blue spot (you could hardly call it a hole, the flesh 

241 B 


Mary Barton 

had closed so much over it) in the left temple. A deadly 
aim ! And yet it was so dark a night ! 

“ He must have been close upon him,” said one 
policeman. 

“ And have had him between him and the sky,” added 
the other. 

There was a little commotion at the door of the room, 
and there stood poor Mrs. Carson, the mother. 

She had heard unusual noises in the house, and had sent 
down her maid (much more a companion to her than her 
highly- educated daughters) to discover what was going on. 
But the maid either forgot, or dreaded, to return ; and with 
nervous impatience Mrs. Carson came down herself, and had 
traced the hum and buzz of voices to the servants’ hall. 

Mr. Carson turned round. But he could not leave the 
dead for any one living. 

Take her away, nurse. It is no sight for her. Tell 
Miss Sophy to go to her mother.” His eyes were again 
fixed on the dead face of his son. 

Presently Mrs. Carson’s hysterical cries were heard all 
over the house. Her husband shuddered at the outward 
expression of the agony which was rending his heart. 

Then the police superintendent came, and after him the 
doctor. The latter went through all the forms of ascertaining 
death, without uttering a word, and when at the conclusion 
of the operation of opening a vein, from which no blood 
flowed, he shook his head, all present understood the con- 
firmation of their previous belief. The superintendent asked 
to speak to Mr. Carson in private. 

“It was just what I was going to request of you,” 
answered he; so he led the way into the dining-room, with 
the wine-glass still on the table. 

The door was carefully shut, and both sat down, each 
apparently waiting for the other to begin. 

At last Mr. Carson spoke. 

“ You probably have heard that I am a rich man.” 

The superintendent bowed in assent. 

242 


Murder 

“Well, sir, half — nay, if necessary, the whole of my 
fortune I will give to have the murderer brought to the 
gallows.” 

“ Every exertion, you may be sure, sir, shall be used on 
our part; but probably offering a handsome reward might 
accelerate the discovery of the murderer. But what I wanted 
particularly to tell you, sir, is that one of my men has already 
got some clue, and that another (who accompanied me here) 
has within this quarter of an hour found a gun in the field 
which the murderer crossed, and which he probably threw 
away when pursued, as encumbering his flight. I have not 
the smallest doubt of discovering the murderer.” 

“ What do you call a handsome reward ? ” said Mr. 
Carson. 

“ Well, sir, three, or five, hundred pounds is a munificent 
reward : more than will probably be required as a temptation 
to any accomplice.” 

“ Make it a thousand,” said Mr. Carson decisively. “ It’s 
the doing of those damned turn-outs.” 

“ I imagine not,” said the superintendent. “ Some days 
ago the man I was naming to you before, reported to the 
inspector when he came on his beat, that he had to separate 
your son from a young man, whom by his dress he believed 
to be employed in a foundry; that the man had thrown 
Mr. Carson down, and seemed inclined to proceed to more 
violence, when the policeman came up and interfered. 
Indeed, my man wished to give him in charge for an assault, 
but Mr. Carson would not allow that to be done.” 

“Just like him ! — noble fellow ! ” murmured the father. 

“ But after your son had left, the man made use of some 
pretty strong threats. And it’s rather a curious coincidence 
that this scuffle took place in the very same spot where the 
murder was committed : in Turner Street.” 

There was some one knocking at the door of the room. 
It was Sophy, who beckoned her father out, and then asked 
him, in an awe-struck whisper, to come upstairs and speal^ 
to her mother. 


243 


Mary Barton 

*‘She will not leave Harry, and talks so strangely. 
Indeed — indeed — papa, I think she has lost her senses.” 

And the poor girl sobbed bitterly. 

“ Where is she ? ” asked Mr. Carson. 

“ In his room.” 

They went upstairs rapidly, and silently. It was a large 
comfortable bedroom; too large to be well lighted by the 
flaring, flickering kitchen- candle which had been hastily 
snatched up, and now stood on the dressing-table. 

On the bed, surrounded by its heavy, pall-like green 
curtains, lay the dead son. They had carried him up, and 
laid him down, as tenderly as though they feared to waken 
him ; and, indeed, it looked more hke sleep than death, so 
very calm. and full of repose was the face. You saw, too, 
the chiselled beauty of the features much more perfectly 
than when the brilliant colouring of life had distracted 
your attention. There was a peace about him which told 
that death had come too instantaneously to give any 
previous pain. 

In a chair, at the head of the bed, sat the mother, — 
smiling. She held one of the hands (rapidly stiffening, even 
in her warm grasp), and gently stroked the back of it, with 
the endearing caress she had used to all her children when 
young. 

“ I am glad you are come,” said she, looking up at her 
husband, and still smihng. “Harry is so full of fun, he 
always has something new to amuse us with ; and now he 
pretends he is asleep, and that we can’t waken him. Look ! 
he is smiling now; he hears I have found him out. 
Look!” 

And, in truth, the lips, in the rest of death, did look as 
though they wore a smile, and the waving light of the un- 
snuffed candle almost made them seem to move. 

“ Look, Amy,” said she to her youngest child, who knelt 
at her feet, trying to soothe her, by kissing her garments. 

“ Oh, he was always a rogue ! You remember, don’t you, 
love? how full of play he was as a baby; hiding his face 

244 


Murder 

under my arm, when you wanted to play with him. Always 
a rogue, Harry ! ” 

“We must get her away, sir,” said nurse ; “ you know 
there is much to he done, before ” 

“ I understand, nurse,” said the father, hastily interrupting 
her in dread of the distinct words which would tell of the 
changes of mortality. 

“ Come, love,” said he to his wife. “ I want you to come 
with me. I want to speak to you downstairs.” 

“ I’m coming,” said she, rising ; “ perhaps, after all, 
nurse, he’s really tired, and would he glad to sleep. Don’t 
let him get cold, though, — he feels rather chilly,” continued 
she, after she had hent down, and kissed the pale lips. 

Her husband put his arm around her waist, and they 
left the room. Then the three sisters burst into unrestrained 
wailings. They were startled into the reality of life and 
death. And yet in the midst of shrieks and moans, of 
shivering and chattering of teeth, Sophy’s eye caught the 
calm beauty of the dead ; so calm amidst such violence, and 
she hushed her emotion. 

“ Come,” said she to her sisters, “ nurse wants us to go ; 
and besides, we ought to be with mamma. Papa told the 
man he was talking to, when I went for him, to wait, and 
she must not be left.” 

Meanwhile, the superintendent had taken a candle, and 
was examining the engravings that hung round the dining- 
room. It was so common to him to be acquainted with 
crime, that he was far from feeling all his interest absorbed 
in the present case of violence, although he could not help 
having much anxiety to detect the murderer. He was busy 
looking at the only oil-painting in the room (a youth of 
eighteen or so, in a fancy dress, and conjecturing its identity 
with the young man so mysteriously dead, when the door 
opened, and Mr. Carson returned. Stern as he had looked 
before leaving the room, he looked far sterner now. His 
face was hardened into deep-purposed wrath. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir, for leaving you.” The 

245 


Mary Barton 

superintendent bowed. They sat down, and spoke long 
together. One by one the policemen were called in, and 
questioned. 

All through the night there was hustle and commotion in 
the house. Nobody thought of going to hed. It seemed 
strange to Sophy to hear nurse summoned from her mother’s 
side to supper, in the middle of the night, and still stranger 
that she could go. The necessity of eating and drinking 
seemed out of place in the house of death. 

When night was passing into morning, the dining-room 
door opened, and two persons’ steps were heard along the 
hall. The superintendent was leaving at last. Mr. Carson 
stood on the front-door step, feehng the refreshment of the 
caller morning air, and seeing the starlight fade away into 
dawn. 

“ You will not forget,” said he. “ I trust to you.” The 
policeman bowed. 

“ Spare no money. The only purpose for which I now 
value wealth is to have the murderer arrested, and brought 
to justice. My hope in life now is to see him sentenced to 
death. Offer any rewards. Name a thousand pounds in the 
placards. Come to me at any hour, night or day, if that be 
required. All I ask of you is, to get the murderer hanged. 
Next week, if possible — to-day is Friday. Surely with the 
clues you already possess, you can muster up evidence 
sufficient to have him tried next week.” 

“ He may easily request an adjournment of his trial, on 
the ground of the shortness of the notice,” said the super- 
intendent. 

“ Oppose it, if possible. I will see that the first lawyers 
are employed. I shall know no rest while he lives.” 

“ Everything shall be done, sir.” 

“ You will arrange with the coroner. Ten o’clock if con- 
venient.” 

The superintendent- took leave. 

Mr. Carson stood on the step, dreading to shut out the 
light and air, and return into the haunted, gloomy house. 

246 


Jem Wilson arrested on Suspicion 

“ My son ! my son ! ” he said at last. “ But you shall be 
avenged, my poor murdered boy.” 

Ay ! to avenge his wrongs the murderer had singled out 
his victim, and with one fell action had taken away the life 
that God had given. To avenge his child’s death, the old 
man lived on; with the single purpose in his heart of 
vengeance on the murderer. True, his vengeance was 
sanctioned by law, but was it the less revenge ? 

Are ye worshippers of Christ ? or of Alecto ? 

Oh, Orestes! you would have made a very tolerable 
Christian of the nineteenth century 1 


CHAPTEE XIX 

JEM WILSON ARRESTED ON SUSPICION 

“ Deeds to be hid which were not hid, 

Which, all confused, I could not know. 

Whether I suffered or I did, 

For all seemed guilt, remorse, or woe.” 

Coleridge. 

I LEFT Mary, on that same Thursday night which left its 
burden of woe at Mr. Carson’s threshold, haunted with de- 
pressing thoughts. All through the night she tossed rest- 
lessly about, trying to get quit of the ideas that harassed her, 
and longing for the light when she could rise, and find some 
employment. But just as dawn began to appear, she became 
more quiet, and fell into a sound heavy sleep, which lasted 
till she was sure it was late in the morning, by the full light 
that shone in. 

She dressed hastily, and heard the neighbouring church 
clock strike eight. It was far too late to do as she had 

247 


Mary Barton 

planned (after inquiring how Alice was, to return and tell 
Margaret), and she accordingly went in to inform the latter 
of her change of purpose, and the cause of it ; but on entering 
the house she found Job sitting alone, looking sad enough. 
She told him what she came for. 

“ Margaret, wench ! why, she’s been gone to Wilson’s 
these two hours. Ay ! sure, you did say last night you would 
go ; but she could na rest in her bed, so was off betimes this 
morning.” 

Mary could do nothing but feel guilty of her long morning 
nap, and hasten to follow Margaret’s steps ; for, late as it was, 
she felt she could not settle well to her work, unless she 
learnt how kind good Alice Wilson was going on.. 

So, eating her crust-of-bread breakfast, she passed rapidly 
along the street. She remembered afterwards the little 
groups of people she had seen, eagerly hearing, and impart- 
ing news ; but at the time her only care was to hasten on her 
way, in dread of a reprimand from Miss Simmonds. 

She went into the house at Jane Wilson’s, her heart at 
the instant giving a strange knock, and sending the rosy flush 
into her face, at the thought that Jem might possibly be 
inside the door. But I do assure you, she had not thought 
of it before. Impatient and loving as she was, her solicitude 
about Alice on that hurried morning had not been mingled 
with any thought of him. 

Her heart need not have leaped, her colour need not have 
rushed so painfully to her cheeks, for he was not there. 
There was the round table, with a cup and saucer, which had 
evidently been used, and there was Jane Wilson sitting on 
the other side, crying quietly, while she ate her breakfast 
with a sort of unconscious appetite. And there was Mrs. 
Davenport washing away at a night- cap or so, which, by 
their simple, old-world make, Mary knew at a glance were 
Alice’s. But nothing — no one else. 

Alice was much the same, or rather better of the two, 
they told her : at any rate she could speak, though it was 
sad rambling talk. Would Mary like to see her ? 

248 


Jem Wilson arrested on Suspicion 

Of course she would. Many are interested by seeing their 
friends under the new aspect of illness ; and among the poor 
there is no wholesome fear of injury or excitement to restrain 
this wish. 

So Mary went upstairs, accompanied by Mrs. Davenport, 
wringing the suds off her hands, and speaking in a loud 
whisper far more audible than her usual voice. 

“ I mun be hastening home, but I’ll come again to-night, 
time enough to iron her cap ; ’twould be a sin and a shame 
if we let her go dirty now she’s ill, when she’s been so rare 
and clean all her life long. But she’s sadly forsaken, poor 
thing ! She’ll not know you, Mary ; she knows none of us.” 

The room upstairs held two beds, one superior in the 
grandeur of four posts and checked curtains to the other, 
which had been occupied by the twins in their brief lifetime. 
The smaller had been Alice’s bed since she had lived there ; 
but with the natural reverence to one “ stricken of God and 
afflicted,” she had been installed, since her paralytic stroke 
the evening before, in the larger and grander bed; while 
Jane Wilson had taken her short broken rest on the little 
pallet. 

Margaret came forwards to meet her friend, whom she 
half expected, and whose step she knew. Mrs. Davenport 
returned to her washing. 

The two girls did not speak ; the presence of Alice awed 
them into silence. There she lay with the rosy colour, 
absent from her face since the days of childhood, flushed 
once more into it by her sickness nigh unto death. She lay 
on the affected side, and with her other arm she was con- 
stantly sawing the air, not exactly in a restless manner, but 
in a monotonous, incessant way, very trying to a watcher. 
She was talking away, too, almost as constantly, in a low 
indistinct tone. But her face, her profiled countenance, 
looked calm and smiling, even interested by the ideas that 
were passing through her clouded mind. 

“ Listen ! ” said Margaret, as she stooped her head down 
to catch the muttered words more distinctly. 

249 


Mary Barton 

“ What will mother say ? The bees are turning home- 
ward for th’ last time, and we’ve a terrible long bit to go yet. 
See ! here’s a linnet’s nest in this gorse-bush. Th’ hen bird 
is on it. Look at her bright eyes, she won’t stir. Ay ! we 
mun hurry home. Won’t mother be pleased with the bonny 
lot of heather we’ve got ! Make haste, Sally, maybe we shall 
have cockles for supper. I saw th’ cockle-man’s donkey turn 
up our way fra’ Arnside.” 

Margaret touched Mary’s hand, and the pressure in return 
told her that they understood each other; that they knew 
how in this illness to the old, world-weary woman, God had 
sent her a veiled blessing : she was once more in the scenes 
of her childhood, unchanged and bright as in those long 
departed days ; once more with the sister of her youth, the 
playmate of fifty years ago, who had for nearly as many 
years slept in a grassy grave in the little churchyard beyond 
Burton.- 

Alice’s face changed; she looked sorrowful, almost 
penitent. 

“ Oh, Sally ! I wish we’d told her. She thinks we were 
in church all morning, and we’ve gone on deceiving her. 
If we’d told her at first how it was — how sweet th’ hawthorn 
smelt through the open church door, and how we were on 
th’ last bench in the aisle, and how it were the first butterfly 
we’d seen this spring, and how it flew into th’ very church 
itself; oh! mother is so gentle, I wish we’d told her. I’ll 
go to her next time she comes in sight, and say, ‘ Mother, 
we were naughty last Sabbath.’ ” 

She stopped, and a few tears came stealing down the old 
withered cheek, at the thought of the temptation and deceit 
of her childhood. Surely many sins could not have darkened 
that innocent child-like spirit since. Mary found a red- 
spotted pocket-handkerchief, and put it into the hand which 
sought about for something to wipe away the trickling tears. 
She took it with a gentle murmur. 

“ Thank you, mother.” 

Mary pulled Margaret away from the bed. 

250 


Jem Wilson arrested on Suspicion 

“ Don’t you think she’s happy, Margaret? ” 

“ Ay ! that I do, bless her. She feels no pain, and knows 
nought of her present state. Oh ! that I could see, Mary ! 
I try and be patient with her afore me, but I’d give aught I 
have to see her, and see what she wants. I am so useless ! 
I mean to stay here as long as Jane Wilson is alone ; and I 
would fain be here all to-night, but ” 

“ I’ll come,” said Mary decidedly. 

“ Mrs. Davenport said she’d come again, but she’s hard- 
worked all day ” 

“ I’ll come,” repeated Mary. 

“ Do ! ” said Margaret, “ and I’ll be here till you come. 
Maybe, Jem and you could take th’ night between you, and 
Jane Wilson might get a bit of sound sleep in his bed ; for 
she were up and down the better part of last night, and just 
when she were in a sound sleep this morning, between two 
and three, Jem came home, and th’ sound o’ his voice roused 
her in a minute.” 

“Where had he been till that time o’ night?” asked 
Mary. 

“ Nay ! it were none of my business ; and, indeed, I never 
saw him till he came in here to see Alice. He were in again 
this morning, and seemed sadly downcast. But you’ll, maybe, 
manage to comfort him to-night, Mary,” said Margaret, 
smiling, while a ray of hope glimmered in Mary’s heart, and 
she almost felt glad, for an instant, of the occasion which 
would at last bring them together. Oh ! happy night ! when 
would it come ? Many hours had yet to pass. 

Then she saw Alice, and repented, with a bitter self- 
reproach. But she could not help having gladness in the 
depths of her heart, blame herself as she would. So she 
tried not to think, as she hurried along to Miss Simmonds’, 
with a dancing step of lightness. 

She was late — that she knew she should be. Miss 
Simmonds was vexed and cross. That also she had antici- 
pated, and had intended to smooth her raven down by extra- 
ordinary diligence and attention. But there was something 

251 


Mary Barton 

about the girls she did not understand — had not anticipated. 
They stopped talking when she came in ; or rather, I should 
say, stopped listening, for Sally Leadbitter was the talker 
to whom they were hearkening with deepest attention. At 
first they eyed Mary, as if she had acquired some new interest 
to them since the day before. Then they began to whisper ; 
and, absorbed as Mary had been in her own thoughts, she 
could not help becoming aware that it was of her they 
spoke. 

At last Sally Leadbitter asked Mary if she had heard the 
news ? 

“ No ! What news ? ” answered she. 

The girls looked at each other with gloomy mystery. 
Sally went on. 

“ Have you not heard that young Mr. Carson was 
mu^red last night ? ” 

Mary’s lips could not utter a negative, but no one who 
looked at her pale and terror- strickep face could have doubted 
that she had not heard before of the fearful occurrence. 

Oh, it is terrible, that sudden information, that one you 
have known has met with a bloody death ! You seem to 
shrink from the world where such deeds can be committed, 
and to grow sick with the idea of the violent and wicked 
men of earth. Much as Mary had learned to dread him 
lately, now he was dead (and dead in such a manner) her 
feeling was that of oppressive sorrow for him. 

The room went round and round, and she felt as though 
she should faint ; but Miss Simmonds came in, bringing a 
waft of fresher air as she opened the door, to refresh the 
body, and the certainty of a scolding for inattention to brace 
the sinking mind. She, too, was full of the morning’s news. 

“ Have you heard any more of this horrid affair, Miss 
Barton ? ” asked she, as she settled to her work. 

Mary tried to speak; at first she could not, and when 
she succeeded in uttering a sentence, it seemed as though 
it were not her own voice that spoke. 

“ No, ma’am, I never heard of it till this minute.” 

252 


Jem Wilson arrested on Suspicion 

“ Dear ! that’s strange, for every one is up about it. I 
hope the murderer will be found out, that I do. Such a 
handsome young man to be killed as he was. I hope the 
wretch that did it may be hanged as high as Haman.” 

One of the girls reminded them that the assizes came on 
next week. 

“ Ay,” replied Miss Simmonds, “ and the milkman told 
me they will catch the wretch, and have him tried and hung 
in less than a week. Serve him right, whoever he is. Such 
a handsome young man as he was.” 

Then each began to communicate to Miss Simmonds the 
various reports they had heard. 

Suddenly she burst out — 

“ Miss Barton ! as I live, dropping tears on that new silk 
gown of Mrs. Hawkes’ ! Don’t you know they will stain, 
and make it shabby for ever ? Crying like a baby, because 
a handsome young man meets with an untimely end. For 
shame of yourself, miss 1 Mind your character and your 
work, if you please. Or if you must cry ” (seeing her scold- 
ing rather increased the flow of Mary’s tears, than otherwise), 
“ take this print to cry over. That won’t be marked like 
this beautiful silk,” rubbing it, as if she loved it, with a clean 
pocket-handkerchief, in order to soften the edges of the hard 
round drops. 

Mary took the print, and, naturally enough, having had 
leave given her to cry over it rather checked the inclination 
to weep. 

Everybody was full of the one subject. The girl sent out 
to match silk came back with the account gathered at the 
shop, of the coroner’s inquest then sitting ; the ladies who 
called to speak about gowns first began about the murder, 
and mingled details of that with directions for their dresses. 
Mary felt as though the haunting horror were a nightmare, 
a fearful dream, from which awakening would relieve her. 
The picture of the murdered body, far more ghastly than the 
reality, seemed to swim in the air before her eyes. Sally 
Leadbitter looked and spoke of her, almost accusingly, and 

253 


Mary Barton 

made no secret now of Mary’s conduct, more blamable to 
her fellow-workwomen for its latter changeableness, than 
for its former giddy flirting. 

“ Poor young gentleman,” said one, as Sally recounted 
Mary’s last interview with Mr. Carson. 

“ What a shame ! ” exclaimed another, looking indignantly 
at Mary. 

“ That’s what I call regular jilting,” said a third. “ And 
he lying cold and bloody in his coffin now ! ” 

Mary was more thankful than she could express, when 
Miss Simmonds returned, to put a stop to Sally’s com- 
munications, and to check the remarks of the girls. 

She longed for the peace of Alice’s sick-room. No more 
thinking with inflnite delight of her anticipated meeting with 
Jem; she felt too much shocked for that now; but, longing 
for peace and kindness, for the images of rest and beauty, 
and sinless times long ago, which the poor old woman’s 
rambling presented, she wished to be as near death as Alice, 
and to have struggled through this world, whose sufferings 
she had early learnt, and whose crimes now seemed pressing 
close upon her. Old texts from the Bible, that her mother 
used to read (or rather spell out) aloud in the days of child- 
hood, came up to her memory. “ Where the wicked cease 
from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” “ And God shall 
wipe away all tears from their eyes,” &c. And it was to that 
world Alice was hastening ! Oh ! that she were Alice ! 

I must return to the Wilsons’ house, which was far from 
being the abode of peace that Mary was picturing it to her- 
self. You remember the reward Mr. Carson offered for the 
apprehension of the murderer of his son ? It was in itself 
a temptation, and to aid its efficacy came the natural sym- 
pathy for the aged parents mourning for their child, for the 
young man cut off in the flower of his days; and besides 
this, there is always a pleasure in unravelling a mystery, in 
catching at the gossamer clue which will guide to certainty. 
This feeling, I am sure, gives much impetus to the police. 
Their senses are ever and always on the qui-vive, and they 

254 


Jem Wilson arrested on Suspicion 

enjoy the collecting and collating evidence, and the life of 
adventure they experience : a continual unwinding of Jack 
Sheppard romances, always interesting to the vulgar and 
uneducated mind, to which the outward signs and tokens 
of crime are ever exciting. 

There was no lack of clue or evidence at the coroner’s 
inquest that morning. The shot, the finding of the body, the 
subsequent discovery of the gun, were rapidly deposed to ; 
and then the policeman who had interrupted the quarrel 
between Jem Wilson and the murdered young man was 
brought forward, and gave his evidence, clear, simple, and 
straightforward. The coroner had no hesitation, the jury 
had none, but the verdict was cautiously worded. “ Wilful 
murder against some person unknown.” 

This very cautiousness, when he deemed the thing so sure 
as to require no caution, irritated Mr. Carson. It did not 
soothe him that the superintendent called the verdict a mere 
form, — exhibited a warrant empowering him to seize the body 
of Jem Wilson committed on suspicion, — declared his inten- 
tion of employing a well-known officer in the Detective 
Service to ascertain the ownership of the gun, and to collect 
other evidence, especially as regarded the young woman, 
about whom the policeman deposed that the quarrel had 
taken place ; Mr. Carson was still excited and irritable ; rest- 
less in body and mind. He made every preparation for the 
accusation of Jem the following morning before the magis- 
trates : he engaged attorneys skilled in criminal practice to 
watch the case and prepare briefs ; he wrote to celebrated 
barristers coming the Northern Circuit, to bespeak their 
services. A speedy conviction, a speedy execution, seemed 
to be the only things that would satisfy his craving thirst for 
blood. He would have fain been policeman, magistrate, 
accusing speaker, all ; but most of all, the judge, rising with 
full sentence of death on his lips. 

That afternoon, as Jane Wilson had begun to feel the 
effect of a night’s disturbed rest, evinced in frequent drop- 
pings off to sleep, while she sat by her sister-in-law’s bedside, 

255 


Mary Barton 

lulled by the incessant crooning of the invalid’s feeble voice, 
she was startled by a man speaking in the house-place below, 
who, wearied of knocking at the door, without obtaining any 
answer, had entered and was calling lustily for — 

“ Missis ! missis ! ” 

When Mrs. Wilson caught a glimpse of the intruder 
through the stair-rails, she at once saw he was a stranger, a 
working-man, it might be a fellow-labourer with her son, for 
his dress was grimy enough for the supposition. He held a 
gun in his hand. 

“ May I make bold to ask if this gun belongs to your 
son?” 

She first looked at the man, and then, weary and half 
asleep, not seeing any reason for refusing to answer the 
inquiry, she moved forward to examine it, talking while she 
looked for certain old-fashioned ornaments on the stock. 
“ It looks like his ; ay, it is his, sure enough. I could speak 
to it anywhere by these marks. You see it were his grand- 
father’s as were gamekeeper to some one up in th’ north ; 
and they don’t make guns so smart now-a-days. But, how 
corned you by it ? He sets great store on it. Is he bound 
for th’ shooting-gallery ? He is not, for sure, now his aunt 
is so ill, and me left all alone ; ” and the immediate cause of 
her anxiety being thus recalled to her mind, she entered on 
a long story of Alice’s illness, interspersed with recollections 
of her husband’s and her children’s deaths. 

The disguised policeman listened for a minute or two, to 
glean any further information he could ; and then, saying he 
was in a hurry, he turned to go away. She followed him to 
the door, still telling him her troubles, and was never struck, 
until it was too late to ask the reason, with the unaccount- 
ableness of his conduct, in carrying the gun away with him. 
Then, as she heavily climbed the stairs, she put away the 
wonder and the thought about his conduct, by determining 
to believe he was some workman with whom her son had 
made some arrangement about shooting at the gallery, or 
mending the old weapon, or something or other. She had 

256 


Jem Wilson arrested on Suspicion 

enough to fret her, without moidering herself about old guns. 
Jem had given it to him to bring to her; so it was safe 
enough ; or, if it was not, why, she should be glad never to 
set eyes on it again, for she could not abide firearms, they 
were so apt to shoot people. 

So, comforting herself for the want of thought in not 
making further inquiry, she fell off into another doze, feverish, 
dream-haunted, and unrefreshing. 

Meanwhile, the policeman walked off with his prize, with 
an odd mixture of feeling; a little contempt, a little dis- 
appointment, and a good deal of pity. The contempt and 
the disappointment were caused by the widow’s easy admis- 
sion of the gun being her son’s property, and her manner of 
identifying it by the ornaments. He liked an attempt to 
baffle him ; he was accustomed to it ; it gave some exercise 
to his wits and his shrewdness. There would be no fun in 
fox-hunting, if Eeynard yielded himself up without any effort 
to escape. Then, again, his mother’s milk was yet in him, 
policeman, officer of the Detective Service though he was ; 
and he felt sorry for the old woman, whose “ softness ” had 
given such material assistance in identifying her son as the 
murderer. However, he conveyed the gun, and the intelli- 
gence he had gained, to the superintendent ; and the result 
was, that, in a short time afterwards, three policemen went 
to the works at which Jem was foreman, and announced 
their errand to the astonished overseer, who directed them to 
the part of the foundry where Jem was then superintending 
a casting. 

Dark, black were the walls, the ground, the faces around 
them, as they crossed the yard. But, in the furnace-house, 
a deep and lurid red glared over all ; the furnace roared with 
mighty flame. The men, like demons, in their fire-and-soot 
colouring, stood swart around, awaiting the moment when 
the tons of solid iron should have melted down into fiery 
liquid, fit to be poured, with still, heavy sound, into the 
delicate moulding of fine black sand, prepared to receive it. 
The heat was intense, and the red glare grew every instant 

257 s 


Mary Barton 

more fierce ; the policemen stood awed with the novel sight. 
Then, black figures, holding strange-shaped bucket- shovels, 
came athwart the deep-red furnace fight, and clear and 
brilliant flowed forth the iron into the appropriate mould. 
The buzz of voices rose again ; there was time to speak, and 
gasp, and wipe the brows ; and then, one by one, the men 
dispersed to some other branch of their employment. 

No. B 72 pointed out Jem as the man he had seen 
engaged in a scuffle with Mr. Carson, and then the other 
two stepped forward and arrested him, stating of what he 
was accused, and the grounds of the accusation. He offered 
no resistance, though he seemed surprised ; but, calling a 
fellow- workman to him, he briefly requested him to tell his 
mother he had got into trouble, and could not return home 
at present. He did not wish her to hear more at first. 

So Mrs. Wilson’s sleep was next interrupted in almost 
an exactly similar way to the last, like a recurring night- 
mare. 

“ Missis ! missis ! ” some one called out from below. 

Again it was a workman, but this time a blacker-looking 
one than before. 

“ What don ye want ? ” said she peevishly, 

“ Only nothing but ” stammered the man, a kind- 

hearted matter-of-fact person, with no invention, but a great 
deal of sympathy. 

“ Well, speak out, can’t ye, and ha’ done with it ? ” 

“ Jem’s in trouble,” said he, repeating Jem’s very words, 
as he could think of no others. 

“ Trouble ? ” said the mother, in a high-pitched voice of 
distress. “ Trouble ! God help me, trouble will never end, 
I think. What d’ye mean by trouble ? Speak out, man, 
can’t ye ? Is he ill ? My boy ! tell me, is he ill ? ” in a 
hurried voice of terror. 

“ Na, na, that’s not it. He’s well enough. All he bade 
me say was, ‘Tell mother I’m in trouble, and can’t come 
home to-night.’ ” 

“ Not come home to-night 1 And what am I to do with 
258 


Jem Wilson arrested on Suspicion 

Alice ? I can’t go on, wearing my life out wi’ watching. 
He might come and help me.” 

“ I tell you he can’t,” said the man. 

“ Can’t, and he is well, you say ? Stuff ! It’s just that 
he’s getten like other young men, and wants to go a-larking. 
But I’ll give it him when he comes back.” 

The man turned to go ; he durst not trust himself to 
speak in Jem’s justification. But she would not let him off. 

She stood between him and the door, as she said — 

“ Yo shall not go till yo’ve told me what he’s after. I 
can see plain enough you know, and I’ll know, too, before 
I’ve done.” 

“ You’ll know soon enough, missis ! ” 

“ I’ll know now, I tell ye. What’s up that he can’t come 
home and help me nurse ? Me, as never got a wink o’ sleep 
last night wi’ watching? ” 

“ Well, if you will have it out,” said the poor badgered 
man, “ the police have got hold on him.” 

“ On my Jem 1 ” said the enraged mother. “ You’re a 
downright liar, and that’s what you are. My Jem, as never 
did harm to any one in his life. You’re a liar, that’s what 
you are.” 

“ He’s done harm enough now,” said the man, angry in 
his turn, “ for there’s good evidence he murdered young 
Carson, as was shot last night.” 

She staggered forward to strike the man for telling the 
terrible truth; but the weakness of old age, of motherly 
agony, overcame her, and she sank down on a chair, and 
covered her face. He could not leave her. 

When next she spoke, it was in an imploring, feeble 
childlike voice. ^ 

“ O master, say you’re only joking. I ax your pardon if 
I have vexed ye, but please say you’re only joking. You 
don’t know what Jem is to me.” 

She looked humbly, anxiously up at him. 

“ I wish I were only joking, missis ; but it’s true as I 
say. They’ve taken him up on charge of murder. It were 

259 


Mary Barton 

his gun as were found near th’ place ; and one o’ the police 
heard him quarrelling with Mr. Carson a few days back, 
about a girl.” 

“ About a girl ! ” broke in the mother, once more in- 
dignant, though too feeble to show it as before. “ My Jem 
was as steady as ” she hesitated for a comparison where- 

with to finish, and then repeated, “ as steady as Lucifer, and 
he were an angel, you know. My Jem was not one to 
quarrel about a girl.” 

“Ay, but it was that, though. They’d got her name 
quite pat. The man had heard all they said. Mary Barton 
was her name, whoever she may be.” 

“ Mary Barton ! the dirty hussy ! to bring my Jem into 
trouble of this kind. I’ll give it her well when I see her, 
that I will. Oh ! my poor Jem ! ” rocking herself to and 
fro. “ And what about the gun ? What did ye say about 
that ? ” 

“ His gun were found on th’ spot where the murder were 
done.” 

“ That’s a lie for one, then. A man has got the gun now, 
safe and sound. I saw it not an hour ago.” 

The man shook his head. 

“ Yes, he has indeed. A friend o’ Jem’s, as he’d lent it 

to.” 

“ Did you know the chap ? ” asked the man, who was 
really anxious for Jem’s exculpation, and caught a gleam of 
hope from her last speech. 

“No I I can’t say as I did. But he were put on as 
a workman.” 

“ It’s maybe only one of them policemen, disguised.” 

“ Nay ; they’d never go for to do that, and trick me into 
telling on my own son. It would be like seething a kid in 
its mother’s milk ; and that th’ Bible forbids.” 

“ I don’t know,” replied the man. 

Soon afterwards he went away, feeling unable to comfort, 
yet distressed at the sight of sorrow ; she would fain have 
detained him, but go he would. And she was alone. 

260 


Mary’s Dream 

She never for an instant believed Jem guilty : she would 
have doubted if the sun were fire, first : but sorrow, deso- 
lation, and at times, anger, took possession of her mind. 
She told the unconscious Alice, hoping to rouse her to 
sympathy ; and then was disappointed, because, still smiling 
and calm, she murmured of her mother, and the happy days 
of infancy. 


OHAPTEE XX 

MABY’S DBEAM — AND THE AWAKENING 

“ I saw where stark and cold he lay, 

Beneath the gallows-tree, 

And every one did point and say, 

‘ ’Twas there he died for thee ! ’ 

Oh 1 weeping heart 1 Oh I bleeding heart. 

What boots thy pity now ? 

Bid from his eyes that shade depart. 

That death-damp from his brow 1 ” 

“The Birtle Tragedy.** 

So there was no more peace in the house of sickness except 
to Alice, the dying Alice. 

But Mary knew nothing of the ‘afternoon’s occurrences ; 
and gladly did she breathe in the fresh air, as she left Miss 
Simmonds’ house, to hasten to the Wilsons’. The very 
change, from the indoor to the outdoor atmosphere, seemed 
to alter the current of her thoughts. She thought less of the 
dreadful subject which had so haunted her all day ; she cared 
less for the upbraiding speeches of her fellow- workwomen ; the 
old association of comfort and sympathy received from Alice 
gave her the idea that, even now, her bodily presence would 
soothe and compose those who were in trouble, changed, 
unconscious, and absent though her spirit might be. 

261 


Mary Barton 

Then, again, she reproached herself a little for the feeling 
of pleasure she experienced, in thinking that he whom she 
dreaded could never more beset her path ; in the security 
with which she could pass each street corner — each shop, 
where he used to lie in ambush. Oh ! beating heart ! was 
there no other little thought of joy lurking within, to gladden 
the very air without ? Was she not going to meet, to see, to 
hear Jem ; and could they fail at last to understand each 
other’s loving hearts ! 

She softly lifted the latch, with the privilege of friendship. 
He was not there, but his mother was standing by the fire, 
stirring some little mess or other. Never mind! he would 
come soon ; and, with an unmixed desire to do her graceful 
duty to all belonging to him, she stepped lightly forwards, 
unheard by the old lady, who was partly occupied by the 
simmering, bubbling sound of her bit of cookery, but more 
with her own sad thoughts, and wailing, half-uttered mur- 
murings. 

Mary took off bonnet and shawl with speed, and, 
advancing, made Mrs. Wilson conscious of her presence, 
by saying— 

“ Let me do that for you. I’m sure you mun be tired.” 

Mrs. Wilson slowly turned round, and her eyes gleamed 
like those of a pent-up wild beast, as she recognised her 
visitor. 

“ And is it thee that dares set foot in this house, after 
what has come to pass ? Is it not enough to have robbed 
me of my boy with thy arts and thy profligacy, but thou 
must come here to crow over me — me — his mother ? Dost 
thou know where he is, thou bad hussy, with thy great blue 
eyes and yellow hair, to lead men on to ruin ? Out upon 
thee with thy angel’s face, thou whited sepulchre 1 Dost 
thou know where Jem is, all through thee ? ” 

“ No ! ” quivered out poor Mary, scarcely conscious that 
she spoke, so daunted, so terrified was she by the indignant 
mother’s greeting. 

“ He’s lying in th’ New Bailey,” slowly and distinctly 
262 


Mary’s Dream 

spoke the mother, watching the effect of her words, as if 
believing in their infinite power to pain. “ There he lies, 
waiting to take his trial for murdering young Mr. Carson.” 

There was no answer; but such a blanched face, such 
wild, distended eyes, such trembling limbs, instinctively 
seeking support ! 

“ Did you know Mr, Carson as now lies dead ? ” continued 
the merciless woman. “ Folk say you did, and knew him 
but too well. And that, for the sake of such as you, my 
precious child shot yon chap. But he did not. I know he 
did not. They may hang him, but his mother will speak to 
his innocence with her last dying breath.” 

She stopped more from exhaustion than want of words. 
Mary spoke, but in so changed and choked a voice that 
the old woman almost started. It seemed as if some third 
person must be in the room, the voice was so hoarse and 
strange. 

“ Please say it again. I don’t quite understand you. 
What has Jem done ? Please to tell me.” 

“ I never said he had done it. I said, and I’ll swear that 
he never did do it. I don’t care who heard ’em quarrel, or 
if it is his gun as were found near the body. It's not my 
own Jem as would go for to kill any man, choose how a girl 
had jilted him. My own good Jem, as was a blessing sent 
upon the house where he was born.” Tears came into the 
mother’s burning eyes as her heart recurred to the days when 
she had rocked the cradle of her “ first-born ; ” and then, 
rapidly passing over events, till the full consciousness of his 
present situation came upon her, and perhaps annoyed at 
having shown any softness of character in the presence of the 
Delilah who had lured him to his danger, she spoke again, 
and in a sharp tone. 

“ I told him, and told him, to leave off thinking on thee ; 
but he wouldn’t be led by me. Thee ! wench ! thou wert 
not good enough to wipe the dust off his feet. A vile, flirting 
quean as thou art. It’s well thy mother does not know (poor 
body) what a good-for-nothing thou art.” 

263 


Mary Barton 

“ Mother! O mother! ” said Mary, as if appealing to the 
merciful dead. “ But I was not good enough for him ! I 
know I was not,” added she, in a voice of touching humility. 

For through her heart went tolling the ominous, prophetic 
words he had used when he had last spoken to her — 

“ Mary ! you’ll maybe hear of me as a drunkard, and 
maybe as a thief, and maybe as a murderer. Eemember ! 
when all are speaking ill of me, yo will have no right to 
blame me, for it’s your cruelty that will have made me what 
I feel I shall become.” 

And she did not blame him, though she doubted not his 
guilt ; she felt how madly she might act if once jealous of 
him, and how much cause had she not given him for jealousy, 
miserable guilty wretch that she was ! Speak on, desolate 
mother. Abuse her as you will. Her broken spirit feels to 
have merited all. 

But her last humble, self-abased words had touched Mrs. 
Wilson’s heart, sore as it was ; and she looked at the snow- 
pale girl with those piteous eyes, so hopeless of comfort, and 
she relented in spite of herself. 

“ Thou seest what comes of light conduct, Mary ! It’s 
thy doing that suspicion has lighted on him, who is as 
innocent as the babe unborn. Thou’lt have much to answer 
for if he’s hung.' Thou’lt have my death too at thy door ! ” 

Harsh as these words seem, she spoke them in a milder 
tone of voice than she had yet used. But the idea of Jem 
on the gaUows, Jem dead, took possession of Mary, and she 
covered her eyes with her wan hands, as if indeed to shut 
out the fearful sight. 

She murmured some words, which, though spoken low, 
as if choked up from the depths of agony, Jane Wilson 
caught. “My heart is breaking,” said she feebly. “My 
heart is breaking.” 

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Wilson. “Don’t talk in that 
silly way. My heart has a better right to break than yours, 
and yet I hold up, you see. But, oh dear ! oh dear ! ” with 
a sudden revulsion of feeling, as the reality of the danger in 

264 


Mary’s Dream 

wliich her son placed pressed upon her. “ What am I 
saying? How Suld I hold up if thou wert gone, Jem? 
Though I’m as sure as I stand here of thy innocence, if they 
hang thee, my lad, I will lie down and die ! ” 

She wept aloud with bitter consciousness of the fearful 
chance awaiting her child. She cried more passionately 
still. 

Mary roused herself up. 

“Oh, let me stay with you, at any rate, till we know the 
end. Dearest Mrs. Wilson, mayn’t I stay? ” 

The more obstinately and upbraidingly Mrs. Wilson 
refused, the more Mary pleaded, with ever the same soft 
entreating cry, “ Let me stay with you.” Her stunned soul 
seemed to bound its wishes, for the hour at least, to remain- 
ing with one who loved and sorrowed for the same human 
being that she did. 

But no. Mrs. Wilson was inflexible. 

“ I’ve, maybe, been a bit hard on you, Mary, I’ll own that. 
But I cannot abide you yet with me. I cannot but remember 
it’s your giddiness as has wrought this woe. I’ll stay with 
Alice, and perhaps Mrs. Davenport may come help a bit. I 
cannot put up with you about me. Good-night. To-morrow 
I may look on you different, maybe. Good-night.” 

And Mary turned out of the house, which had been his 
home, where he was loved, and mourned for, into the busy, 
desolate, crowded street, where they were crying halfpenny 
broadsides, giving an account of the bloody murder, the 
coroner’s inquest, and a raw-head-and-bloody-bones picture 
of the suspected murderer, James Wilson. 

But Mary heard not ; she heeded not. She staggered on 
like one in a dream. With hung head and tottering steps, 
she instinctively chose the shortest cut to that home yhich 
was to her, in her present state of mind, only the hiding-place 
of four walls, where she might vent her agony, unseen and 
unnoticed by the keen unkind world without, but where no 
welcome, no love, no sympathising tears awaited her. 

As she neared that home, within two minutes’ walk of it, 
265 


Mary Barton 

her impetuous course was arrested by a light touch on her 
arm, and turning hastily, she saw a little Italian boy, with 
his humble show-box, — a white mouse, or some such thing. 
The setting sun cast its red glow on his face, otherwise the 
ohve complexion would have been very pale ; and the ghtter- 
ing tear-drops hung on the long curled eyelashes. With his 
soft voice, and pleading looks, he uttered, in his pretty broken 
English, the words — 

“ Hungry ! so hungry.” 

And as if to aid by gesture the effect of the solitary word, 
he pointed to his mouth, with its white quivering Hps. 

Mary answered him impatiently, “ O lad, hunger is 
nothing — nothing ! ” 

And she rapidly passed on. But her heart upbraided her 
the next minute with her unrelenting speech, and she hastily 
entered her door and seized the scanty remnant of food which 
the cupboard contained, and she retraced her steps to the 
place where the little hopeless stranger had sunk down by 
his mute companion in lonehness and starvation, and was 
raining down tears as he spoke in some foreign tongue, with 
low cries for the far distant “ Mamma mia ! ” 

With the elasticity of heart belonging to childhood he 
sprang up as he saw the food the girl brought ; she whose 
face, lovely in its woe, had tempted him first to address her ; 
and, with the graceful courtesy of his country, he looked up 
and smiled while he kissed her hand, and then poured forth 
his thanks, and shared her bounty with his little pet com- 
panion. She stood an instant, diverted from the thought of 
her own grief by the sight of his infantine gladness ; and 
then, bending down and kissing his smooth forehead, she left 
him, and sought to be alone with her agony once more. 

She re-entered the house, locked the door, and tore off 
her bonnet, as if greedy of every moment which took her 
from the full indulgence of painful, despairing thought. 

Then she threw herself on the ground, yes, on the hard 
flags -she threw her soft hmbs down ; and the comb fell out 
of her hair, and those bright tresses swept the dusty floor, 

266 


Mary’s Dream 

while she pillowed and hid her face on her arms, and hurst 
forth into loud, suffocating sobs. 

O earth ! thou didst seem but a dreary dwelhng-place for 
thy poor child that night. None to comfort, none to pity ! 
And self-reproach gnawing at her heart. 

Oh, why did she ever listen to the tempter ? Why did 
she ever give her ear to her own suggestions, and cravings 
after wealth and grandeur ? Why had she thought it a fine 
thing to have a rich lover ? 

She — she had deserved it all : but he was the victim, — he, 
the beloved. She could not conjecture, she could not even 
pause to think who had revealed, or how he had discovered 
her acquaintance with Harry Carson. It was but too clear, 
some way or another, he had learnt all ; and what would he 
think of her ? No hope of his love, — oh, that she would 
give up, and be content : it was his life, his precious life, that 
was threatened ! Then she tried to recall the particulars, 
which, when Mrs. Wilson had given them, had fallen but upon 
a deafened ear, — something about a gun, a quarrel, which she 
could not remember clearly. Oh, how terrible to think of 
his crime, his blood-guiltiness ; he who had hitherto been so 
good, so noble, and now an assassin ! And then she shrank 
from him in thought ; and then, with bitter remorse, clung 
more closely to his image with passionate self-upbraiding. 
Was it not she who had led him to the pit into which he 
had fallen ? Was she to blame him ? She to judge him ? 
Who could tell how maddened he might have been by 
jealousy; how one moment’s uncontrollable passion might 
have led him to become a murderer ! And she had blamed 
him in her heart after his last deprecating, imploring, 
prophetic speech ! 

Then she burst out crying afresh ; and when weary of 
crying, fell to thinking again. The gallows ! The gallows 1 
Black it stood against the burning light which dazzled her 
shut eyes, press on them as she would. Oh ! she was 
going mad ; and for awhile she lay outwardly still, but with 
the pulses careering through her head with wild vehemence. 

267 


Mary Barton 

And then came a strange forgetfulness of the present, in 
thought of the long-past times ; — of those days when she hid 
her face on her mother’s pitying, loving bosQm, and heard 
tender words of comfort, be her grief or her error what 
it might ; — of those days when she had felt as if her 
mother’s love was too mighty not to last for ever ; — of those 
days when hunger had been to her (as to the little stranger 
she had that evening relieved) something to be thought 
about, and mourned over ; — when Jem and she had played 
together ; he, with the condescension of an older child, and 
she, with unconscious earnestness, believing that he was 
as much gratified with important trifles as she was ; — when 
her father was a cheery-hearted man, rich in the love of his 
wife, and the companionship of his friend ; — when (for it 
still worked round to that), when mother was alive, and 
he was not a murderer. 

And then Heaven blessed her unaware, and she sank 
from remembering, to wandering, unconnected thought, and 
thence to sleep. Yes ! it was sleep, though in that strange 
posture, on that hard, cold bed ; and she dreamt of the happy 
times of long ago, and her mother came to her, and kissed 
her as she lay, and once more the dead were alive again 
in that happy world of dreams. All was restored to the 
gladness of childhood, even to the little kitten which had 
been her playmate and boson friend then, and which had 
been long forgotten in her waking hours. All the loved ones 
were there ! 

She suddenly wakened ! Clear and wide awake ! Some 
noise had startled her from sleep. She sat up, and put her 
hair (still wet with tears) back from her flushed cheeks, and 
listened. At first she could only hear her beating heart. All 
was still without, for it was after midnight, such hours of 
agony had passed away ; but the moon shone clearly in 
at the unshuttered window, making the room almost as light 
as day, in its cold ghastly radiance. There was a low knock 
at the door! A strange feeling crept over Mary’s heart, 
as if something spiritual were near ; as if the dead, so lately 

268 


Esther’s Motive in seeking Mary 

present in her dreams, were yet gliding and hovering round 
her, with their dim, dread forms. And yet, why dread? 
Had they not loved her ? — and who loved her now ? Was 
she not lonely enough to welcome the spirits of the dead, 
who had loved her while here ? If her mother had conscious 
being, her love for her child endured. So she quieted her 
fears, and listened — listened still. 

“ Mary ! Mary ! open the door 1 ” as a little movement 
on her part seemed to tell the being outside of her wakeful, 
watchful state. They were the accents of her mother’s 
voice; the very south-country pronunciation, that Mary so 
well remembered; and which she had sometimes tried to 
imitate when alone, with the fond mimicry of affection. 

So, without fear, without hesitation, she rose and unbarred 
the door. There, against the moonlight, stood a form, so 
closely resembling her dead mother, that Mary never doubted 
the identity, but exclaiming (as if she were a terrified child, 
secure of safety when near the protecting care of its 
parent) — 

“ O mother ! mother ! you are come at last ? ” she threw 
herself, or rather fell into the trembling arms of her long- 
lost, unrecognised aunt, Esther. 


CHAPTEK XXI 

esthee’s motive in seeking maky 

“ My rest is gone, 

My heart is sore. 

Peace find I never, 

And never more.” 

Margaret’s Song in “Faust.” 

I MUST go back a little to explain the motives which caused 
Esther to seek an interview with her niece. 

The murder had been committed early on Thursday night, 
269 


Mary Barton 

and between then and the dawn of the following day there 
was ample time for the news to spread far and wide among 
all those whose duty, or whose want, or whose errors, caused 
them to be abroad in the streets of Manchester. 

Among those who listened to the tale of violence was 
Esther. 

A craving desire to know more took possession of her 
mind. Far away as she was from Turner Street, she imme- 
diately set off to the scene of the murder, which was faintly 
lighted by the grey dawn as she reached the spot. It was 
so quiet and still that she could hardly believe it to be the 
place. The only vestige of any scuffle or violence was a 
trail on the dust, as if somebody had been lying there, and 
then been raised by extraneous, force. The little birds were 
beginning to hop and twitter in the leafless hedge, making 
the only sound that was near and distinct. She crossed 
into the field where she guessed the murderer to have stood ; 
it was easy of access, for the worn, stunted hawthorn-hedge 
had many gaps in it. The night-smell of bruised grass came 
up from under her feet, as she went towards the saw-pit and 
carpenter’s shed which, as I have said before, were in a 
corner of the field near the road, and where one of her 
informants had told her it was supposed by the police that 
the murderer had lurked while waiting for his victim. There 
was no sign, however, that any one had been about the place. 
If the grass had been bruised or bent where he had trod, it 
had had enough of the elasticity of life to raise itself under 
the dewy influences of night. She hushed her breath in 
involuntary awe, but nothing else told of the violent deed by 
which a fellow-creature had passed away. She stood still 
for a minute, imagining to herself the position of the parties, 
guided by the only circumstance which afl'orded any evidence, 
^the trailing mark on the dust in the road. 

Suddenly (it was before the sun had risen above the 
horizon) she became aware of something white in the hedge. 
All other colours wore the same murky hue, though the 
forms of objects were perfectly distinct. What was it ? It 

270 


Esther’s Motive in seeking Mary 

could not be a flower; — that, the time of year made clear. 
A frozen lump of snow, lingering late in one of the gnarled 
tufts of the hedge? She stepped forward to examine. It 
proved to be a little piece of stiff writing-paper compressed 
into a round shape. She understood it instantly; it was 
the paper that had served as wadding for the murderer’s 
gun. Then she had been standing just where the murderer 
must have been but a few hours before; probably (as the 
rumour had spread through the town, reaching her ears) 
one of the poor maddened turn-outs, who hung about every- 
where, with black, fierce looks, as if contemplating some 
deed of violence. Her sympathy was all with them, for she 
had known what they suffered ; and besides this, there was 
her own individual dislike of Mr. Carson, and dread of him 
for Mary’s sake. Yet, poor Mary ! Death was a terrible, 
though sure, remedy for the evil Esther had dreaded for her ; 
and how would she stand the shock, loving as her aunt 
believed her to do ? Poor Mary ! who would comfort her ? 
Esther’s thoughts began to picture her sorrow, her despair, 
when the news of her lover’s death should reach her ; and 
she longed to tell her there might have been a keener grief 
yet, had he lived. 

Bright, beautiful came the slanting rays of the morning 
sun. It was time for such as she to hide themselves, with 
the other obscene things of night, from the glorious light of 
day, which was only for the happy. So she turned her 
steps towards town, still holding the paper. But in getting 
over the hedge it encumbered her to hold it in her clasped 
hand, and she threw it down. She passed on a few steps, 
her thoughts still of Mary, till the idea crossed her mind, 
could it (blank as it appeared to be) give any clue to the 
murderer ? As I said before, her sympathies were all on 
that side, so she turned back and picked it up ; and then, 
feeling as if in some measure an accessory, she hid it 
unexamined in her hand, and hastily passed out of the street 
at the opposite end to that by which she had entered it. 

And what do you think she felt, when, having walked 
271 


Mary Barton 

some distance from the spot, she dared to open the crushed 
paper, and saw written on it Mary Barton’s name, and not 
only that, but the street in which she lived ! True, a letter 
or two was torn off, but, nevertheless, there was the name 
clear to be recognised. And oh! what terrible thought 
flashed into her mind ; or was it only fancy ? But it looked 
very like the writing which she had once known well — the 
writing of Jem Wilson, who, when she lived at her brother- 
in-law’s, and he was a near neighbour, had often been 
employed by her to write her letters to people, to whom she 
was ashamed of sending her own misspelt scrawl. She 
remembered the wonderful flourishes she had so much 
admired in those days, while she sat by dictating, and Jem, 
in all the pride of newly- acquired penmanship, used to 
dazzle her eyes by extraordinary graces and twirls. 

If it were his I 

Oh 1 perhaps it was merely that her head was running 
so on Mary, that §he was associating every trifle with her. 
As if only one person wrote in that flourishing, meandering 
style ! 

It was enough to fill her mind to think from what she 
might have saved Mary by securing the paper. She would 
look at it just once more, and see if some very dense and 
stupid policeman could have mistaken the name, or if Mary 
would certainly h.£^e been dragged into notice in the affair. 

No ! no one could have mistaken the “ ry Barton,” and 
it was Jem’s handwriting ! 

Oh ! if it was so, she understood it all, and she had been 
the cause I With her violent and unregulated nature, rendered 
morbid by the course of life she led, and her consciousness 
of her degradation, she cursed herself for the interference 
which she believed had led to this ; for the information and 
the warning she had given to Jem, which had roused him to 
this murderous action. How could she, the abandoned and 
polluted outcast, ever have dared to hope for a blessing, even 
on her efforts to do good. The black curse of Heaven rested 
on all her doings, were they for good or for evil. 

272 


Esther’s Motive in seeking Mary 

Poor, diseased mind! and there were none to minister 
to thee ! 

So she wandered about, too restless to take her usual 
heavy morning’s sleep, up and down the streets, greedily 
listening to every word of the passers-by, and loitering near 
each group of talkers, anxious to scrape together every 
morsel of information, or conjecture, or suspicion, though 
without possessing any definite purpose in all this. And 
ever and always she clenched the scrap of paper which 
might betray so much, until her nails had deeply indented 
the palm of her hand; so fearful was she in her nervous 
dread, lest unawares she should let it drop. 

Towards the middle of the day she could no longer evade 
the body’s craving want of rest and refreshment ; but the 
rest was taken in a spirit vault, and the refreshment was a 
glass of gin. 

Then she started up from the stupor she had taken for 
repose; and suddenly driven before the gusty impulses of 
her mind, she pushed her way to the place where at that 
very time the police were bringing the information they had 
gathered with regard to the all-engrossing murder. She 
listened with painful acuteness of comprehension to dropped 
words, and unconnected sentences, the meaning of which 
became clearer, and yet more clear to her. Jem was 
suspected. Jem was ascertained to be the murderer. 

She saw him (although he, absorbed in deep sad thought, 
saw her not), she saw him brought handcuffed, and guarded 
out of the coach. She saw him enter the station — she gasped 
for breath till he came out, still handcuffed, and still guarded, 
to be conveyed to the New Bailey. 

He was the only one who had spoken to her with hope 
that she might win her way back to virtue. His words had 
lingered in her heart with a sort of call to heaven, like distant 
Sabbath bells, although in her despair she had turned away 
from his voice. He was the only one who had spoken to 
her kindly. The murder, shocking though it was, was an 
absent, abstract thing, on which her thoughts could not, and 

273 T 


Mary Barton 

would not, dwell : all that was present in her mind was Jem’s 
danger, and his kindness. 

Then Mary came to remembrance. Esther wondered till 
she was sick of wondering, in what way she was taking the 
affair. In some manner it would be a terrible blow for the 
poor, motherless girl; with her dreadful father, too, who 
was to Esther a sort of accusing angel. 

She set off towards the court where Mary lived, to pick 
up what she could there of information. But she was 
ashamed to enter in where once she had been innocent, and 
hung about the neighbouring streets, not daring to question ; 
so she learnt but little : nothing, in fact, but the knowledge 
of John Barton’s absence from home. 

She went up a dark entry to rest her weary limbs on a 
doorstep and think. Her elbows on her knees, her face 
hidden in her hands, she tried to gather together and arrange 
her thoughts. But still every now and then she opened her 
hand to see if the paper were yet there. 

She got up at last. She had formed a plan, and had a 
course of action to look forward to that would satisfy one 
craving desire at least. The time was long gone by when 
there was much wisdom or consistency in her projects. 

It was getting late, and that was so much the better. 
She went to a pawnshop, and took off her finery in a back 
room. She was known by the people, and had a character 
for honesty, so she had no very great difficulty in inducing 
them to let her have a suit of outer clothes, befitting the wife 
of a working-man, a black silk bonnet, a printed gown, a 
plaid shawl, dirty and rather worn to be sure, but which had 
a sort of sanctity to the eyes of the street- walker, as being 
the appropriate garb of that happy class to which she could 
never, never more belong. 

She looked at herself in the little glass which hung against 
the wall, and sadly shaking her head thought how easy were 
the duties of that Eden of innocence from which she was 
shut out ; how she would work, and toil, and starve, and die, 
if necessary, for a husband, a home — for children — but that 

2JA 


Esther’s Motive in seeking Mary 

thought she could not bear ; a little form rose up, stem in 
its innocence, from the witches’ caldron of her imagination, 
and she rushed into action again. 

You know now how she came to stand by the threshold 
of Mary’s door, waiting, trembling, until the latch was lifted, 
and her niece, with words that spoke of such desolation 
among the living, fell into her arms. 

She had felt as if some holy spell would prevent her (even 
as the unholy Lady Geraldine was prevented, in the abode 
of Christabel) from crossing the threshold of that home of 
her early innocence; and she had meant to wait for an 
invitation. But Mary’s helpless action did away with all 
reluctant feehng, and she bore or dragged her to her seat, 
and looked on her bewildered eyes, as, puzzled with the 
likeness, which was not identity, she gazed on her aunt’s 
features. 

In pursuance of her plan, Esther meant to assume the 
manners and character, as she had done the dress, of a 
mechanic’s wife ; but then, to account for her long absence, 
and her long silence towards all that ought to have been 
dear to her, it was necessary that she should put on an 
indifference far distant from her heart, which was loving and 
yearning, in spite of all its faults. And, perhaps, she over- 
acted her part, for certainly Mary felt a kind of repugnance 
to the changed and altered aunt, who so suddenly reappeared 
on the scene ; and it would have cut Esther to the very core, 
could she have known how her little darling of former days 
was feeling towards her. 

“ You don’t remember me, I see, Mary ! ” she began. 
“ It’s a long while since I left you all, to be sure ; and I, 
many a time, thought of coming to see you, and — and your 
father. But I live so far off, and am always so busy, I can- 
not do just what I wish. You recollect aunt Esther, don’t 
you, Mary ? ” 

“ Are you Aunt Hetty ? ” asked Mary faintly, still looking 
at the face which was so different from the old recollections 
of her aunt’s fresh dazzling beauty. 

275 


Mary Barton 

“ Yes ! I am Aunt Hetty. Oh ! it’s so long since I heard 
that name,” sighing forth the thoughts it suggested; then, 
recovering herself, and striving after the hard character she 
wished to assume, she continued : “ And to-day I heard a 
friend of yours, and of mine too, long ago, was in trouble, 
and I guessed you would be in sorrow, so I thought I would 
just step this far and see you.” 

Mary’s tears flowed afresh, but she had no desire to open 
her heart to her strangely-found aunt, who had, by her own 
confession, kept aloof from and neglected them for so many 
years. Yet she tried to feel grateful for kindness (however 
late) from any one, and wished to be civil. Moreover, she 
had a strong disinclination to speak on the terrible subject 
uppermost in her mind. So, after a pause, she said — 

“ Thank you. I dare say you mean very kind. Have 
you had a long walk? I’m so sorry,” said she, rising with 
a sudden thought, which was as suddenly checked by recol- 
lection, “ but I’ve nothing to eat in the house, and I’m sure 
you must be hungry, after your walk.” 

For Mary concluded that certainly her aunt’s residence 
. must be far away on the other side of the town, out of sight 
or hearing. But, after all, she did ^ot think much about 
her; her heart was so aching-full of other things, that all 
besides seemed like a dream. She received feelings and 
impressions from her conversation with her aunt, but did 
not, could not, put them together, or think or argue about 
them. 

And Esther! How scanty had been her food for days 
and weeks, her thinly- covered bones and pale lips might tell, 
but her words should never reveal 1 So, with a little unreal 
laugh, she replied — 

“ Oh 1 Mary, my dear 1 don’t talk about eating. We’ve 
the best of everything, and plenty of it, for my husband is in 
good work. I’d such a supper before I came out. I couldn’t 
touch a morsel if you had it.” 

Her words shot a strange pang through Mary’^ heart. 
She had always remembered her aunt’s loving and unselfish 

276 


Esther’s Motive in seeking Mary 

disposition ; how was it changed, if, living in plenty,, she 
had never thought it worth while to ask after relations who 
were all but starving ! She shut up her heart instinctively 
against her aunt. 

And all the time poor Esther was swallowing her sobs, 
and over-acting her part, and controlling herself more than 
she had done for many a long day, in order that her niece 
might not be shocked and revolted, by the knowledge of 
what her aunt had become — a prostitute, an outcast. 

She had longed to open her wretched, wretched heart, 
so hopeless, so abandoned by all living things, to one who 
had loved her once; and yet she refrained, from dread of 
the averted eye, the altered voice, the internal loathing, 
which she feared such disclosure might create. She would 
go straight to the subject of the day. She could not tarry 
long, for she felt unable to support the character she had 
assumed for any length of time. 

They sat by the little round table, facing each other. 
The candle was placed right between them, and Esther 
moved it in order to have a clearer view of Mary’s face, 
so that she might read her emotions, and ascertain her 
interests. Then she began — 

“It’s a bad business, I’m afraid, this of Mr. Carson’s 
murder.” 

Mary winced a little. 

“ I hear Jem Wilson is taken up for it.” 

Mary covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shade 
them from the light, and Esther herself, less accustomed 
to self-command, was getting too much agitated for calm 
observation of another. 

“ I was taking a walk near Turner Street, and I went to 
see the spot,” continued Esther, “ and, as luck would have 
it, I spied this bit of paper in the hedge,” producing the 
precious piece still folded in her hand. “ It has been used 
as wadding for the gun, I reckon; indeed, that’s clear 
enough, from the shape it’s crammed into. I was sorry 
for the murderer, whoever he might be (I didn’t then know 

277 


Mary Barton 

of Jem’s being suspected), and I thought I would never 
leave a thing about, as might help, ever so little, to convict 
him; the police are so ’cute about straws. So I carried it 
a little way, and then I opened it and saw your name, 
Mary.” 

Mary took her hands away from her eyes, and looked 
with surprise at her aunt’s face, as she uttered these words. 
She was kind after all, for was she not saving her from being 
summoned, and from being questioned and examined; a 
thing to be dreaded above all others : as she felt sure that 
her unwilling answers, frame them how she might, would 
add to the suspicions against Jem ; her aunt was indeed 
kind, to think of what would spare her this. 

Esther went on, without noticing Mary’s look. The very 
action of speaking was so painful to her, and so much inter- 
rupted by the hard, raking little cough, which had been her 
constant annoyance for months, that she was too much 
engrossed by the physical difficulty of utterance, to be a very 
close observer. 

“ There could be no mistake if they had found it. Look 
at your name, together with the very name of this court ! 
And in Jem’s handwriting too, or I’m much mistaken. 
Look, Mary ! ” 

And now she did watch her. 

Mary took the paper and flattened it ; then suddenly 
stood stiff up, with irrepressible movement, as if petrified by 
some horror abruptly disclosed ; her face, strung and rigid ; 
her lips compressed tight, to keep down some rising ex- 
clamation. She dropped on her seat, as suddenly as if the 
braced muscles had in an instant given way. But she spoke 
no word. 

“It is his handwriting — isn’t it? ” asked Esther, though 
Mary’s manner was almost confirmation enough. 

“You will not tell. You never will tell,” demanded 
Mary, in a tone so sternly earnest, as almost to be 
threatening. 

“Nay, Mary,” said Esther, rather reproachfully, “ I am 

278 


Esther’s Motive in seeking Mary 

not so bad as that. “ O Mary, you cannot think I would do 
that, whatever I may be.” 

The tears sprang to her eyes at the idea that she was 
suspected of being one who would help to inform against an 
old friend. 

Mary caught her sad and upbraiding look. 

“ No ! I know you would not tell, aunt. I don’t know 
what I say, I am so shocked. But say you will not tell. 
Do.” 

“No, indeed I will n’t tell, come what may.” 

Mary sat still looking at the writing, and turning the 
paper round with careful examination, trying to hope, but 
her very fears belying her hopes. 

“ I thought you cared for the young man that’s murdered,” 
observed Esther, half-aloud ; but feeling that she could not 
mistake this strange interest in the suspected murderer, 
implied by 'Mary’s eagerness to screen him from anything 
which might strengthen suspicion against him. She had 
come, desirous to know the extent of Mary’s grief for Mr. 
Carson, and glad of the excuse afforded her by the important 
scrap of paper. Her remark about its being Jem’s hand- 
writing, she had, with this view of ascertaining Mary’s state 
of feeling, felt to be most imprudent the instant after she 
had uttered it ; but Mary’s anxiety that she should not tell, 
was too great, and too decided, to leave a doubt as to her 
interest for Jem. She grew more and more bewildered, 
and her dizzy head refused to reason. Mary never spoke. 
She held the bit of paper firmly, determined to retain 
possession of it, come what might ; and anxious, and 
impatient, for her aunt to go. As she sat, her face bore 
a likeness to Esther’s dead child. 

“ You are so like my little girl, Mary ! ” said Esther, 
weary of the one subject on which she could get no satis- 
faction, and recurring, with full heart, to the thought of the 
dead. 

Mary looked up. Her aunt had children, then. That 
was all the idea she received. No faint imagination of the 

279 


Mary Barton 

love and the woe of that poor creature crossed her mind, or 
she would have taken her, all guilty and erring, to her 
bosom, and tried to bind up the broken heart. No ! it was 
not to be. Her aunt had children, then ; and she was on 
the point of putting some question about them ; but before it 
could be spoken another thought turned it aside, and she went 
back to her task of unravelhng the mystery of the paper, and 
the handwriting. Oh ! how she wished her aunt would go ! 

As if, according to the believers in mesmerism, the 
intenseness of her wish gave her power over another, 
although the wish was unexpressed, Esther felt herself 
unwelcome, and that her absence was desired. 

She felt this some time before she could summon up 
resolution to go. She was so much disappointed in this 
longed-for, dreaded interview with Mary ; she had wished to 
impose upon her with her tale of married respectability, and 
yet she had yearned and craved for sympathy in her real 
lot. And she had imposed upon her well. She should 
perhaps be glad of it afterwards; but her desolation of 
hope seemed for the time redoubled. And she must leave 
the old dwelling-place, whose very walls, and flags, dingy 
and sordid as they were, had a charm for her. Must leave 
the abode of poverty, for the more terrible abodes of vice. 
She must — she would go. 

“ Well, good-night, Mary. That bit of paper is safe 
enough with you, I see. But you made me promise I would 
not tell about it, and you must promise me to destroy it 
before you sleep.” 

“ I promise,” said Mary hoarsely, but firmly. “ Then you 
are going ? ” 

“ Yes. Not if you wish me to stay. Not if I could be 
of any comfort to you, Mary ; ” catching at some glimmering 
hope. 

“ Oh, no,” said Mary, anxious to be alone. “ Your 
husband will be wondering where you are. Some day 
you must tell me all about yourself. I forget what your 
name is ? ” 


280 


Mary’s Efforts to prove an Alibi 

“ Fergusson,’' said Esther sadly. 

“ Mrs. Fergusson,” repeated Mary half unconsciously. 
“ And where did you say you lived ? ” 

“I never did say,” muttered Esther; then aloud, “In 
Angel’s Meadow, 145 Nicholas Street.” 

“145 Nicholas Street, Angel Meadow. I shall remember.” 

As Esther drew her shawl around her, and prepared to 
depart, a thought crossed Mary’s mind that she had been 
cold and hard in her manner towards one, who had certainly 
meant to act kindly in bringing her the paper (that dread, 
terrible piece of paper!), and thus saving her from — she 
could not rightly think how much, or how little she was 
spared. So desirous of making up for her previous 
indifferent manner, she advanced to kiss her aunt before 
her departure. 

But, to her surprise, her aunt pushed her off with a 
frantic kind of gesture, and saying the words — 

“ Not me. You must never kiss me. You I ” 

She rushed into the outer darkness of the street, and 
there wept long and bitterly. 


CHAPTEE XXII 

mart’s efforts to prove an alibi 

“ There was a listening fear in her regard. 

As if calamity had but begun ; 

As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
Was, with its stored thunder, labouring up.” 

Keats’ “Hyperion.” 

No sooner was Mary alone than she fastened the door, and put 
the shutters up against the window, which had all this time 
remained shaded only by the curtains hastily drawn together 
on Esther’s entrance, and the lighting of the candle. 

281 


Mary Barton 

She did all this with the same compressed lips, and the 
same stony look that her face had assumed on the first 
examination of the paper. Then she sat down for an instant 
to think; and, rising directly, went, with a step rendered 
firm by inward resolution of purpose, up the stairs ; passed 
her own door, two steps, into her father’s room. What did 
she want there ? 

I must tell you ; I must put into words the dreadful 
secret which she believed that bit of paper had revealed to 
her. 

Her father was the murderer. 

That comer of stiff, shining, thick, writing paper, she 
recognised as a part of the sheet on which she had copied 
Samuel Bamford’s beautiful fines so many months ago — 
copied (as you perhaps remember) on the blank part of a 
valentine sent to her by Jem Wilson, in those days when she 
did not treasure and hoard up everything he had touched, as 
she would do now. 

That copy had been given to her father, for whom it was 
made, and she had occasionally seen him reading it over, not 
a fortnight ago she was sure. But she resolved to ascertain 
if the other part still remained in his possession. He might — 
it was just possible he mighty have given it away to some 
friend; and if so, that person was the guilty one, for she 
could swear to the paper anywhere. 

First of all she pulled out every article from the little old 
chest of drawers. Amongst them were some things which 
had belonged to her mother, but she had no time now to 
examine and try and remember them. All the reverence she 
could pay them was to carry them and lay them on the bed 
carefully, while the other things were tossed impatiently out 
upon the floor. 

The copy of Bamford’s fines was not there. Oh ! perhaps 
he might have given it away; but then must it not have 
been to Jem ? It was his gun. 

And she set too with redoubled vigour to examine the 
deal box which served as chair, and which had once contained 

282 


Mary’s Efforts to prove an Alibi 

her father’s Sunday clothes, in the days when he could afford 
to have Sunday clothes. 

He had redeemed his better coat from the pawn-shop 
before he left, that she had noticed. Here was his old one. 
What rustled under her hand in the pocket ? 

The paper ! “0 father ! ” 

Yes, it fitted ; jagged end to jagged end, letter to letter ; 
and even the part which Esther had considered blank had 
its tallying mark with the larger piece, its tails of ys and gs. 
And then, as if that were not damning evidence enough, she 
felt again, and found some little bullets or shot (I don’t know 
which you would call them) in that same pocket, along with 
a small paper parcel of gunpowder. As she was going to 
replace the jacket, having abstracted the paper, and bullets, 
&c., she saw a woollen gun-case, made of that sort of striped 
horse-cloth you must have seen a thousand times appro- 
priated to such a purpose. The sight of it made her examine 
still further, but there was nothing else that could afford any 
evidence, so she locked the box, and sat down on the floor 
to contemplate the articles ; now with a sickening despair, 
now with a kind of wondering curiosity, how her father had 
managed to evade observation. After all it was easy enough. 
He had evidently got possession of some gun (was it really 
Jem’s? was he an accomplice? No! she did not beheve 
it ; he never, never would deliberately plan a murder with 
another, however he might be wrought up to it by passionate 
feeling at the time. Least of all would he accuse her to 
her father, without previously warning her; it was out of 
his nature). 

Then having obtained possession of the gun, her father 
had loaded it at home, and might have carried it away with 
him some time when the neighbours were not noticing, and 
she was out, or asleep ; and then he might have hidden it 
somewhere to be in readiness when he should want it. She 
was sure he had no such thing with him when he went away 
the last time. 

She felt it was of no use to conjecture his motives. His 
283 


Mary Barton 

actions had become so wild and irregular of late, that she 
could not reason upon them. Besides, was it not enough 
to know that he was guilty of this terrible offence? Her 
love for her father seemed to return with painful force, 
mixed up as it was with horror at kis crime. That dear 
father who was once so kind, so warm-hearted, so ready to 
help either man or beast in distress, to murder! But in 
the desert of misery with which these thoughts surrounded 
her, the arid depths of whose gloom she dared not venture 
to contemplate, a little spring of comfort was gushing up at 
her feet, unnoticed at first, but soon to give her strength 
and hope. 

And that was the necessity for exertion on her part which 
this discovery enforced. 

Oh ! I do think that the necessity for exertion, for some 
kind of action (bodily or mental) in time of distress, is a most 
infinite blessing, although the first efforts at such seasons 
are painful. Something to be done implies that there is yet 
hope of some good thing to be accomplished, or some addi- 
tional evil that may be avoided; and by degrees the hope 
absorbs much of the sorrow. 

It is the woes that cannot in any earthly way be escaped 
that admit least earthly comforting. Of all trite, worn-out, 
hollow mockeries of comfort that were ever uttered by people 
who will not take the trouble of sympathising with others, 
the one I dislike the most is the exhortation not to grieve 
over an event, “for it cannot be helped.” Do you think if 
I could help it, I would sit still with folded hands, content 
to mourn? Do you not believe that as long as hope re- 
mained I would be up and doing ? I mourn because what 
has occurred cannot be helped. The reason you give me 
for not grieving is the very and sole reason of my grief. 
Give me nobler and higher reasons for enduring meekly 
what my Father sees fit to send, and I will try earnestly 
and faithfully to be patient ; but mock me not, or any other 
mourner, with the speech, “ Do not grieve, for it cannot be 
helped. It is past remedy.” 


284 


Mary’s Efforts to prove an Alibi 

But some remedy to Mary’s sorrow came with thinking. 
If her father was guilty, Jem was innocent. If innocent, 
there was a possibility of saving him. He must be saved. 
And she must do it; for, was not she the sole depository 
of the terrible secret ? Her father was not suspected ; and 
never should be, if by any foresight or any exertions of her 
own she could prevent it. 

She did not know how Jem was to be saved, while her 
father was also to be considered innocent. It would require 
much thought, and much prudence. But with the call upon 
her exertions, and her various qualities of judgment and 
discretion, came the answering consciousness of innate power 
to meet the emergency. Every step now, nay, the employ- 
ment of every ^minute, was of consequence ; for you must 
remember she had learnt at Miss Simmonds’ the probability 
that the murderer would be brought to trial the next week. 
And you must remember, too, that never was so young a 
girl so friendless, or so penniless, as Mary was at this time. 
But the lion accompanied Una through the wilderness and 
the danger; and so will a high, resolved purpose of right- 
doing ever guard and accompany the helpless. 

It struck two ; deep, mirk night. 

It was of no use bewildering herself with plans this weary, 
endless night. Nothing could be done before morning ; and, 
at first in her impatience, she began to long for day ; but 
then she felt in how unfit a state her body was for any plan 
of exertion, and she resolutely made up her mind to husband 
her physical strength. 

First of all she must burn the tell-tale paper. The 
powder, bullets, and gun-case, she tied into a bundle, and 
hid in the sacking of the bed for the present, although there 
was no likelihood of their affording evidence against any one. 
Then she carried the paper downstairs, and burned it on the 
hearth, powdering the very ashes with her fingers, and 
dispersing the fragments of fluttering black films among the 
cinders of the grate. Then she breathed again. 

Her head ached with dizzying violence; she must get 
285 


Mary Barton 

quit of the pain or it would incapacitate her for thinking and 
planning. She looked for food, but there was nothing but 
a little raw oatmeal in the house : still, although it almost 
choked her, she ate some of this, knowing from experience, 
how often headaches were caused by long fasting. Then 
she sought for some water to bathe her throbbing temples, 
and quench her feverish thirst. There was none in the 
house, so she took the jug and went out to the pump at 
the other end of the court, whose echoes resounded her hght 
footsteps in the quiet stillness of the night. The hard, 
square outlines of the houses cut sharply against the cold 
bright sky, from which myriads of stars were shining down 
in eternal repose. There was little sympathy in the outward 
scene, with the internal trouble. All was so still, so motion- 
less, so hard! Very different to this lovely night in the 
country in which I am now writing, where the distant 
horizon is soft and undulating in the moonlight, and the 
nearer trees sway gently to and fro in the night-wind with 
something of almost human motion; and the rustling air 
makes music among their branches, as if speaking soothingly 
to the weary ones, who lie awake in heaviness of heart. 
The sights and sounds of such a night lull pain and grief 
to rest. 

But Mary re-entered her home after she had filled her 
pitcher, with a still stronger sense of anxiety, and a still 
clearer conviction of how much rested upon her unassisted 
and friendless self, alone with her terrible knowledge, in the 
hard, cold, populous world. 

She bathed her forehead, and quenched her thirst, and 
then, with wise deliberation of purpose, went upstairs, and 
undressed herself, as if for a long night’s slumber, although 
so few hours intervened before day- dawn. She believed she 
never could sleep, but she lay down, and shut her eyes ; and 
before many minutes she was in as deep and sound a slumber 
as if there was no sin or sorrow in the world. 

She woke up, as it was natural, much refreshed in body ; 
but with a consciousness of some great impending calamity. 

286 


Mary’s Efforts to prove an Alibi 

She sat up in bed to recollect, and when she did remember, 
she sank down again with all the helplessness of despair. 
But it was only the weakness of an instant ; for were not 
the very minutes precious, for deliberation if not for action ? 

Before she had finished the necessary morning business 
of dressing, and setting her house in some kind of order, 
she had disentangled her ravelled ideas, and arranged some 
kind of a plan for action. If Jem was innocent (and now, 
of the guilt, even the slightest participation in, or knowledge 
of, the murder, she acquitted him with all her heart and 
soul), he must have been somewhere else when the crime 
was committed ; probably with some others, who might bear 
witness to tha fact, if she only knew where to find them. 
Everything rested on her. She had heard of an alibi, and 
l:>elieved it might mean the deliverance she wished to accom- 
plish ; but she was not quite sure, and determined to apply 
to Job, as one of the few among her acquaintance gifted 
with the knowledge of hard words, for to her, all terms 
of law, or natural history, were alike many-syllabled 
mysteries. 

No time was to be lost. She went straight to Job Legh’s 
house, and found the old man and his grand-daughter sitting 
at breakfast ; as she opened the door she heard their voices 
speaking in a grave, hushed, subdued tone, as if something 
grieved their hearts. They stopped talking on her entrance, 
and then she knew they had been conversing about the 
murder; about Jem’s probable guilt; and (it flashed upon 
her for the first time) on the new light they would have 
obtained regarding herself: for until now they had never 
heard of her giddy flirting with Mr. Carson ; not in all her 
confidential talk with Margaret had she ever spoken of him. 
And now, Margaret would hear her conduct talked of by all, 
as that of a bold, bad girl ; and even if she did not believe 
everything that was said, she could hardly help feeling 
wounded, and disappointed in Mary. 

So it was in a timid voice that Mary wished her usual 
good-morrow, and her heart sunk within her a little, when 

287 


Mary Barton 

Job, with a form of civility, bade her welcome in that dwelling, 
where, until now, she had been too well assured to require to 
be asked to sit down. 

She took a chair. Margaret continued silent. 

“I’m come to speak to you about this — about Jem 
Wilson.” 

“ It’s a bad business, I’m afeard,” replied Job sadly. 

“Ay, it’s bad enough anyhow. But Jem’s innocent. 
Indeed he is ; I’m as sure as sure can be.” 

“ How can you know, wench ? Facts bear strong again 
him, poor fellow, though he’d a deal to put him up, and 
aggravate him, they say. Ay, poor lad, he’s done for himself, 
I’m afeard.” 

“ Job,” said Mary, rising from her chair in her eagerness, 
“you must not say he did it. He didn’t; I’m sure and 
certain he didn’t. Oh ! why do you shake your head ? 
Who is to believe me, — who is to think him innocent, if you, 
who know’d him so well, stick to it he’s guilty ? ” 

“ I’m loth enough to do it, lass,” replied Job ; “ but I 
think he’s been ill-used, and — jilted (that’s plain truth, Mary, 
bare as it may seem), and his blood has been up — many a 
man has done the like afore, from like causes.” 

“ O God ! Then you won’t help me. Job, to prove him 
innocent? O Job, Job; believe me, Jem never did harm to 
no one.” 

“ Not afore ; — and mind, wench ! I don’t over-blame him 
for this.” Job relapsed into silence. 

Mary thought a moment. 

“ Well, Joh, you’ll not refuse me this, I know. I won’t 
mind what you think, if you’ll help me as if he was innocent. 
Now suppose I know — I knew, he was innocent, — it’s only 
supposing. Job, — what must I do to prove it? Tell me. 
Job ! Isn’t it called an alibi, the getting folk to swear to 
where he really was at the time.” 

“ Best way, if you know’d him innocent, would be to 
find out the real murderer. Some one did it, that’s clear 
enough. If it wasn’t Jem, who was it? ” 

288 


Mary’s Efforts to prove an Alibi 

“ How can I tell ? ” answered Mary, in agony of terror, 
lest Job’s question was prompted by any suspicion of the 
truth. 

But he was far enough from any such thought. Indeed, 
he had no doubt in his own mind that Jem had, in some 
passionate moment, urged on by slighted love and jealousy, 
been the murderer. And he was strongly inclined to believe, 
that Mary was aware of this ; only that, too late repentant of 
her light conduct which had led to such fatal consequences, 
she was now most anxious to save her old playfellow, her 
early friend, from the doom awaiting the shedder of blood. 

“If Jem’s ^ not done it, I don’t see as any on us can tell 
who did it. We might find out something if we’d time ; but 
they say he’s to be tried on Tuesday. It’s no use hiding it, 
Mary; things look strong against him.’’ 

“ I know they do ! I know they do ! But, Oh, Job ! isn’t 
an alibi a proving where he really was at th’ time of the 
murder; and how must I set about an alihi ? ’’ 

“ An alihi is that, sure enough.’’ He thought a little. 
“ You mun ask his mother his doings, and his whereabouts 
that night ; the knowledge of that will guide you a bit.” 

For he was anxious that on another should fall the task 
of enlightening Mary on the hopelessness of the case, and 
he felt that her own sense would be more convinced by inquiry 
and examination than any mere assertion of his. 

Margaret had sat silent and grave all this time. To tell 
the truth, she was surprised and disappointed by the dis- 
closure of Mary’s conduct with regard to Mr. Henry Carson. 
Gentle, reserved, and prudent herself, never exposed to the 
trial of being admired for her personal appearance, and 
unsusceptible enough to be in doubt even yet; whether the 
fluttering, tender, infinitely- joyous feeling she was for the 
first time experiencing, at sight or sound, or thought of Will 
Wilson, was love or not, — Margaret had no sympathy with 
the temptations to which loveliness, vanity, ambition, or the 
desire of being admired, exposes so many; no sympathy 
with flirting girls, in short. Then, she had no idea of the 

289 u 


Mary Barton 

strength of the conflict between will and principle in some 
who were differently constituted from herself. With her, to 
be convinced that an action was wrong, was tantamount to 
a determination not to do so again ; and she had little or no 
difficulty in carrying out her determination. So she could 
not understand how it was that Mary had acted wrongly, 
and had felt too much ashamed, in spite of internal sophistry, 
to speak of her actions. Margaret considered herself deceived ; 
felt aggrieved ; and, at the time of which I am now telling 
you, was strongly inclined to give Mary up altogether, as a 
girl devoid of the modest proprieties of her sex, and capable 
of gross duplicity, in speaking of one lover as she had done of 
Jem, while she was encouraging another in attentions, at 
best of a very doubtful character. 

But now Margaret was drawn into the conversation. 
Suddenly it flashed across Mary’s mind, that the night of 
the murder was the very night, or rather the same early 
morning, that Margaret had been with Alice. She turned 
sharp round, with — 

“ Oh, Margaret, you can tell me ; you were there when he 
came back that night ; were you not ? No ! you were not ; 
but you were there not many hours after. Did not you hear 
where he’d been ? He was away the night before, too, when 
Alice was first taken ; when you were there for your tea. 
Oh ! where was he, Margaret ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” she answered. “ Stay ! I do remember 
something about his keeping Will company, in his walk to 
Liverpool. I can’t justly say what it was, so much happened 
that night.” 

“ I’ll go to his mother’s,” said Mary resolutely. 

They neither of them spoke, either to advise or dissuade. 
Mary felt she had no sympathy from them, and braced up 
her soul to act without such loving aid of friendship. She 
knew that their advice would be willingly given at her 
demand, and that was all she really required for Jem’s sake. 
Still her courage failed a little as she walked to Jane Wilson's, 
alone in the world with her secret. 

290 


Mary’s Efforts to prove an Alibi 

Jane Wilson’s eyes were swelled with crying ; and it was 
sad to see the ravages which intense anxiety and sorrow 
had made on her appearance in four-and-twenty hours. All 
night long she and Mrs. Davenport had crooned over their 
sorrows, always recurring, like the burden of an old song, to 
the dreadest sorrow of all, which was now impending over 
Mrs. Wilson. She had grown — I hardly know what word 
to use — but, something like proud of her martyrdom ; she 
had grown to hug her grief; to feel an excitement in her 
agony of anxiety about her boy. 

“ So, Mary, you’re here ! Oh, Mary, lass ! He’s to be 
tried on Tuesday.” 

She fell to sobbing, in the convulsive breath-catching 
manner which tells so of much previous weeping. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Wilson, don’t take on so ! We’ll get him off, 
you’ll see. Don’t fret ; they can’t prove him guilty ! ” 

“ But I tell thee they will,” interrupted Mrs. Wilson, 
half-irritated at the light way, as she considered it, in which 
Mary spoke ; and a little displeased that another could hope 
when she had almost brought herself to find pleasure in 
despair. 

“ It may suit thee well,” continued she, “ to make light 
o’ the misery thou hast caused ; but I shall lay his death at 
thy door, as long as I live, and die I know he will ; and all 
for what he never did — no, he never did ; my own blessed 
boy!” 

She was too weak to be angry long ; her wrath sank 
away to feeble sobbing and worn-out moans. 

Mary was most anxious to soothe her from any violence 
of either grief or anger ; she did so want her to be clear in 
her recollection ; and, besides, her tenderness was great 
towards Jem’s mother. So she spoke in a low gentle tone 
the loving sentences, which sound so broken and powerless 
in repetition, and which yet have so much power, when 
accompanied with caressing looks and actions, fresh from 
the heart ; and the old woman insensibly gave herself up to 
the influence of those sweet, loving blue eyes, those tears of 

291 


Mary Barton 

sympathy, those words of love and hope, and was lulled into 
a less morbid state of mind. 

“ And now, dear Mrs. Wilson, can you remember where 
he said he was going on Thursday night ? He was out 
when Alice was taken ill; and he did not come home till 
early in the morning, or, to speak true, in the night : 
did he ? ” 

“Ay! he went out near upon five; he went out with 
Will ; he said he were going to set * him a part of the way, 
for Will were hot upon walking to Liverpool, and wouldn’t 
hearken to Jem’s offer of lending him five shillings for his 
fare. So the two lads set off together. I mind it all now : 
but, thou seest, Alice’s illness, and this business of poor 
Jem’s, drove it out of my head ; they went off together, 
to walk to Liverpool ; that’s to say, Jem were to go a part o’ 
th’ way. But, who knows” (falling back into the old 
desponding tone) “ if he really went ? He might be led off 
on the road. Oh, Mary, wench ! they’ll hang him for what 
he’s never done.” 

“No, they won’t, they shan’t 1 I see my way a bit now. 
We mun get Will to help ; there’ll be time. He can swear 
that Jem were with him. Where is Jem ? ” 

“ Folk said he were taken to Kirkdale, i’ th’ prison van 
this morning ; without my seeing him, poor chap 1 Oh, 
wench ! but they’ve hurried on the business at a cruel 
rate.” 

“Ay 1 they’ve not let grass grow under their feet, in 
hunting out the man that did it,” said Mary, sorrowfully and 
bitterly. “ But keep up your heart. They got on the wrong 
scent when they took to suspecting Jem. Don’t be afeard. 
You’ll see it will end right for Jem.” 

“ I should mind it less if I could do aught,” said Jane 
Wilson ; “ but I’m such a poor weak old body, and my 
head’s so gone, and I’m so daz’d hke, what with Alice and 
all, that I think and think, and can do nought to help my 
child. I might ha’ gone and seen him last night, they tell 

♦ “ To set,” to accompany. 

292 


Mary’s Efforts to prove an Alibi 

me now, and then I missed it. Oh, Mary, I missed it ; and 
may never see the lad again.” 

She looked so piteously in Mary’s face with her miserable 
eyes, that Mary felt her heart giving way, and, dreading the 
weakness of her powers, which the burst of crying she 
longed for would occasion, hastily changed the subject to 
Alice; and Jane, in her heart, feeling that there was no 
sorrow like a mother’s sorrow, replied — 

“ She keeps on much the same, thank you. She’s happy, 
for she knows nothing of what’s going on ; but th’ doctor 
says she grows weaker and weaker. Thou’lt maybe like 
to see her ? ” 

Mary went upstairs ; partly because it is the etiquette in 
humble life, to offer to friends a last opportunity of seeing 
the dying or the dead, while the same etiquette forbids a 
refusal of the invitation ; and partly because she longed 
to breathe, for an instant, the atmosphere of holy calm, 
which seemed ever to surround the pious good old woman. 
Alice lay, as before, without pain, or at least any outward 
expression of it; but totally unconscious of all present 
circumstances, and absorbed in recollections of the days of 
her girlhood, which were vivid enough to take the place 
of reality to her. Still she talked of green fields, and still 
she spoke to the long-dead mother and sister, low-lying 
in their graves this many a year, as if they were with her 
and about her, in the pleasant places where her youth had 
passed. 

But the voice was fainter, the motions were more 
languid ; she was evidently passing away ; but how happily ! 

Mary stood for a time in silence, watching and listening. 
Then 'she bent down and reverently kissed Alice’s cheek ; 
and drawing Jane Wilson away from the bed, as if the spirit 
of her who lay there were yet cognisant of present realities, 
she whispered a few words of hope to the poor mother, and 
kissing her over and over again in a warm, loving manner, 
she bade her good-bye, went a few steps, and then once 
more came back to bid her keep up her heart. 

293 


Mary Barton 

And when she had fairly left the honse, Jane Wilson felt 
as if a sunbeam had ceased shining into the room. 

Yet oh ! how sorely Mary’s heart ached ; for more and 
more the fell certainty came on her that her father was the 
murderer! She struggled hard not to dwell on this con- 
viction ; to think alone on the means of proving Jem’s 
innocence ; that was her first duty, and that should be 
done. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

THE SUB-PCENA 

“ And must it then depend on this poor eye 
And this unsteady hand, whether the bark, . 

That bears my all of treasured hope and love. 

Shall find a passage through these frowning rocks 
To some fair port where peace and safety smile, — 

Or whether it shall blindly dash against them. 

And miserably sink ? Heaven be my help ; 

And clear my eye and nerve my trembling hand ! ” 

“ The Constant Woman.” 

Her heart beating, her head full of ideas, which required 
time and solitude to be reduced into order, Mary hurried 
home. She was like one who finds a jewel of which he 
cannot all at once ascertain the value, but who hides his 
treasure until some quiet hour when he may ponder over the 
capabilities its possession unfolds. She was like one who 
discovers the silken clue which guides to some bower of 
bliss, and secure of the power within his grasp, has to wait 
for a time before he may thread the labyrinth. 

But no jewel, no bower of bliss, was ever so precious 
to miser or lover as was the belief which now pervaded 
Mary’s mind, that Jem’s innocence might be proved, without 
involving any suspicion of that other — that dear one, so dear, 
although so criminal — on whose part in this cruel business 

294 


The Sub-poena 

she dared not dwell even in thought. For if she did, there 
arose the awful question, — if all went against Jem the 
innocent, if judge and jury gave the verdict forth which 
had the looming gallows in the rear, what ought she to 
do, possessed of her terrible knowledge? Surely not to 
inculpate her father — and yet — and yet — she almost prayed 
for the blessed unconsciousness of death or madness, father 
than that awful question should have to be answered by her. 

But now a way seemed opening, opening yet more clear. 
She was thankful she had thought of the alibi, and yet more 
thankful to have so easily obtained the clue to Jem’s where- 
abouts that miserable night. The bright light that her new 
hope threw over all, seemed also to make her thankful for the 
early time appointed for the trial. It would he easy to catch 
Will Wilson on his return from the Isle of Man, which he 
had planned should be on the Monday ; and on the Tuesday 
all would be made clear — all that she dared to wish to be 
made clear. 

She had still to collect her thoughts and freshen her 
memory enough to arrange how to meet with Will — for 
to the chances of a letter she would not trust ; to find out 
his lodgings when in Liverpool ; to try and remember the 
name of the ship in which he was to sail : and the more she 
considered these points, the more difficulty she found there 
would be in ascertaining these minor but important facts. 
For you are aware that Alice, whose memory was clear and 
strong on all points in which her heart was interested, was 
lying in a manner senseless ; that Jane Wilson was (to use 
her own word, so expressive to a Lancashire ear) “ dazed,” * 
that is to say, bewildered, lost in the confession of terrifying 
and distressing thoughts; incapable of concentrating her 
mind; and at the best of times Will’s proceedings were a 
matter of little importance to her (or so she pretended), 
she was so jealous of aught which distracted attention from 
her pearl of price, her only son Jem. So Mary felt hopeless 

* “ They make him so amazed. 

And his eyes so dazed.” — Skelton. 

295 


Mary Barton 

of obtaining any intelligence of the sailor’s arrangements 
from her. 

Then, should she apply to Jem himself ? No ! she knew 
him too well She felt how thoroughly he must ere now 
have had it in his power to exculpate himself at another’s 
expense. And his tacit refusal so to do had assured her of 
what she had never doubted, that the murderer was safe 
from any impeachment of his. But then neither would 
he consent, she feared, to any steps which might tend to 
prove himself innocent. At any rate, she could not consult 
him. He was removed to Kirkdale, and time pressed. 
Already it was Saturday at noon. And even if she could 
have gone to him, I believe she would not. She longed 
to do all herself ; to be his liberator, his dehverer ; to 
win him life, though she might never regain his lost love 
by her own exertions. And oh ! how could she see him to 
discuss a subject in which both knew who was the blood- 
stained man ; and yet whose name might not be breathed 
by either, so dearly with all his faults, his sins, was he loved 
by both. 

All at once, when she had ceased to try and remember, 
the name of Will’s ship flashed across her mind. The John 
Cropper. 

He had named it, she had been sure, all along. He had 
named it in his conversation with her that last, that fatal 
Thursday evening. She repeated it over and over again, 
through a nervous dread of again forgetting it. The John 
Cropper. 

And then, as if she were rousing herself out of some 
strange stupor, she bethought her of Margaret. Who so 
likely as Margaret to treasure every little particular respecting 
Will, now Alice was dead to all the stirring purposes of life ? 

She had -gone thus far in her process of thought, when a 
neighbour stepped in ; she with whom they had usually 
deposited the house-key, when both Mary and her father 
were absent from home, and who consequently took upon 
herself to answer all inquiries, and receive all messages which 

296 


The Sub-pcena 

any friends might make or leave, on finding the house 
shut up. 

“ Here’s somewhat for you, Mary ! A policeman left it.” 

A bit of parchpient. 

Many people have a dread of those mysterious pieces of 
parchment. I am one. Mary was another. Her heart mis- 
gave her as she took it, and looked at the unusual appearance 
of the writing, which, though legible enough, conveyed no 
idea to her ; or rather her mind shut itself up against receiving 
any idea, which after all was rather a proof she had some 
suspicion of the meaning that awaited her. 

“ What is it ? ” asked she, in a voice from which all the 
pith and marrow seemed extracted. 

“Nay 1 how should I know ? Policeman said he’d call 
again towards evening, and see if you’d gotten it. He were 
loth to leave it, though I tolled him who I was, and all about 
my keeping th’ key, and taking messages.” 

“ What is it about ? ” asked Mary again, in the same 
hoarse, feeble voice, and turning it over in her fingers, as if 
she dreaded to inform herself of its meaning. 

“ Well ! yo can read word of writing and I cannot, so it’s 
queer I should have to tell you. But my master says it’s a 
summons for yo to bear witness again Jem Wilson, at th’ 
trial at Liverpool Assize.” 

“ God pity me ! ” said Mary faintly, as white as a sheet. 

“ Nay, wench, never take on so. What yo can say will 
go little way either to help or hinder, for folk say he’s certain 
to be hung ; and sure enough, it was t’other one as was your 
sweetheart.” 

Mary was beyond any pang this speech would have given 
at another time. Her thoughts were all busy picturing to 
herself the terrible occasion of their next meeting — not as 
lovers meet should they meet ! 

“ Well ! ” said the neighbour, seeing no use in remaining 
with one who noticed her words or her presences so little, 
“ thou’lt tell policeman thou’st getten his precious bit of 
paper. He seemed to think I should be keeping it for mysel ; 

297 


Mary Barton 

he’s the first as has ever misdoubted me about giving messages, 
or notes. Good-day.” 

She left the house, but Mary did not know it. She sat 
still with the parchment in her hand. 

All at once she started up. She would take it to Job 
Legh, and ask him to tell her the true meaning, for it could 
not be that. 

So she went, and choked out her words of inquiry. 

“ It’s a sub-poena,” he replied, turning the parchment 
over with the air of a connoisseur ; for Job loved hard words, 
and lawyer-like forms, and even esteemed himself slightly 
qualified for a lawyer, from the smattering of knowledge he 
had picked up from an odd volume of Blackstone that he 
had once purchased at a book-stall. 

“A sub-poena — what is that?” gasped Mary, still in 
suspense. 

Job was struck with her voice, her changed miserable voice, 
and peered at her countenance from over his spectacles. 

“ A sub-poena is neither more nor less than this, my dear. 
It’s a summonsing you to attend, and answer such questions 
as may be asked of you regarding the trial of James Wilson, 
for the murder of Henry Carson ; that’s the long and short of 
it, only more elegantly put, for the benefit of them who knows 
how to value the gift of language. I’ve been a witness before- 
time myself ; there’s nothing much to be afeard on ; if they are 
impudent, why, just you be impudent, and give ’em tit for tat.” 

“ Nothing much to be afeard on ! ” echoed Mary, but in 
such a different tone. 

“ Ay, poor wench, I see how it is. It’ll go hard with thee 
a bit, I dare say ; but keep up thy heart. Yo cannot have 
much to tell ’em, that can go either one way or th’ other. 
Nay ! maybe thou may do him a bit o’ good, for when they 
set eyes on thee, they’ll see fast enough how he came to 
be so led away by jealousy; for thou’rt a pretty creature, 
Mary, and one look at thy face will let ’em into th’ secret 
of a young man’s madness, and make ’em more ready to 
pass it over.” 


298 


The Sub-pcena 

“ Oh, Job, and won’t you ever believe me when I tell you 
he’s innocent ? Indeed, and indeed I can prove it ; he was 
with Will all that night ; he was, indeed. Job ! ” 

“ My wench ! whose word hast thou for that ? ” said Job 
pityingly. 

“ Why ! his mother told me, and I’ll get Will to bear 
witness to it. But, oh, Job ” (bursting into tears), “it is 
hard if you won’t believe me. How shall I clear him to 
strangers, when those who know him, and ought to love him, 
are so set against his being innocent ? ” 

“ God knows, I’m not against his being innocent,” said 
Job solemnly. “ I’d give half my remaining days on earth, — 
I’d give them all, Mary (and but for the love I bear to my 
poor blind girl, they’d be no great gift), if I could save him. 
You’ve thought me hard, Mary, but I’m not hard at bottom, 
and I’ll help you if I can ; that I will, right or wrong,” he 
added, but in a low voice, and coughed the uncertain words 
away the moment afterwards. 

“ Oh, Job ! if you will help me,” exclaimed Mary, brightening 
up (though it was but a wintry gleam after all), “ tell me what 
to say, when they question me ; I shall be so gloppened,* I 
sha’n’t know what to answer.” 

“ Thou canst do nought better than tell the truth. Truth’s 
best at all times, they say ; and for sure it is when folk have 
to do with lawyers ; for they’re ’cute and cunning enough to 
get it out sooner or later, and it makes folk look like Tom 
Noddies, when truth follows falsehood, against their will.” 

“ But I don’t know the truth ; I mean — I can’t say rightly 
what I mean ; but I’m sure, if I were pent up, and stared 
at by hundreds of folk, and asked ever so simple a question, 
I should be for answering it wrong ; if they asked me if I 
had seen you on a Saturday, or a Tuesday, or any day, I 
should have clean forgotten all about it, and say the very 
thing I should not.” 

“ Well, well, don’t go for to get such notions into your 
head ; they’re what they call ‘ narvous,’ and talking on ’em 
* “ Gloppened,” terrified. 

299 


Mary Barton 

does no good. Here’s Margaret ! bless the wench ! Look 
Mary, how well she guides hersel.” 

Job fell to watching his grand-daughter, as with balancing, 
measured steps, timed almost as if to music, she made hei 
way across the street. 

Mary shrank as if from a cold blast — shrank 'from 
Margaret ! The blind girl, with her reserve, her silence, 
seemed to be a severe judge ; she, listening, would be such 
a check to the trusting earnestness of confidence, which was 
beginning to Unlock the sympathy of Job. Mary knew her- 
self to blame ; felt her errors in every fibre of her heart ; but 
yet she would rather have had them spoken about, even in 
terms of severest censure, than have been treated in the icy 
manner in which Margaret had received her that morning. 

“ Here’s Mary,” said Job, almost as if he wished to pro- 
pitiate his grand-daughter, “ come to take a bit of dinner with 
us, for I’ll warrant she’s never thought of cooking any for 
herself to-day ; and she looks as wan and pale as a ghost.” 

It was calling out the feeling of hospitality, so strong and 
warm in most of those who have little to offer, but whose 
heart goes eagerly and kindly with that little. Margaret 
came towards Mary with a welcoming gesture, and a kinder 
manner by far than she had used in the morning. 

“ Nay, Mary, thou know’st thou’st gotten nought at 
home,” urged Job. 

And Mary, faint and weary, and with a heart too aching- 
full of other matters to be pertinacious in this, withdrew her 
refusal. 

They ate their dinner quietly ; for to all it was an effort 
to speak : and after one or two attempts they had subsided 
into silence. 

When the meal was ended, Job began again on the subject 
they all had at heart. 

“ Yon poor lad at Kirkdale will want a lawyer to see they 
don’t put on him, but do him justice. Hast thought of that ? ” 

Mary had not, and felt sure his mother had not. 

Margaret confirmed this last supposition. 

300 


The Sub-poena 

“ I’ve but just been there, and poor Jane is like one 
dateless; so many griefs come on her at once. One time 
she seems to make sure he’ll be hung ; and if I took her 
in that way, she flew out (poor body !) and said, that in spite 
of what folks said, there were them as could, and would prove 
him guiltless. So I never knew where to have her. The 
only thing she was constant in, was declaring him innocent.” 

“ Mother-like ! ” said Job. 

“ She meant Will, when she spoke of them that could 
prove him innocent. He was with Will on Thursday night ; 
walking a part of the way with him to Liverpool ; now the 
thing is to lay hold on Will, and get him to prove this.” So 
spoke Mary, calm, from the earnestness of her purpose. 

“ Don’t build too much on it, my dear,” said Job. 

“ I do build on it,” replied Mary, “ because I know it’s 
the truth, and I mean to try and prove it, come what may. 
Nothing you can say will daunt me. Job, so don’t you go 
and try. You may help, but you cannot hinder me doing 
what I’m resolved on.” 

They respected her firmness of determination, and Job 
almost gave in to her behef, when he saw how steadfastly 
she was acting upon it. Oh I surest way of conversion to 
our faith, whatever it may be — regarding either small things, 
or great — when it is beheld as the actuating principle, from 
which we never swerve ! When it is seen that, instead of 
over-much profession, it is worked into the life, and moves 
every action 1 

Mary gained courage as she instinctively felt she had 
made way with one at least of her companions. 

“ Now I’m clear about this much,” she continued, “ he 
was with Will when the — shot was fired (she could not bring 
herself to say, when the murder was committed, when she 
remembered who it was that, she had every reason to believe, 
was the taker-away of hfe). Will can prove this : I must find 
Will. He wasn’t to sail till Tuesday. There’s time enough. 
He was to come back from his uncle’s, in the Isle of Man, 
on Monday. I must meet him in Liverpool, on that day, 

301 


Mary Barton 

and tell him what has happened, and how poor Jem is in 
trouble, and that he must prove an alihi^ come Tuesday. All 
this I can and will do, though perhaps I don’t clearly know 
how, just at present. But surely God will help me. When 
I know I’m doing right, I will have no fear, but put my trust 
in Him ; for I’m acting for the innocent and good, and not 
for my own self, who have done so wrong. I have no fear 
when I think of Jem, who is so good.” 

She stopped, oppressed with the fulness of her heart. 
Margaret began to love her again ; to see in her the same 
sweet faulty, impulsive, lovable creature she had known in 
the former Mary Barton, but with more of dignity, self- 
rehance, and purpose. 

Mary spoke again. 

“ Now I know the name of Will’s vessel — the John 
Cropper ; and I know that she is bound to America. That 
is something’ to know. But I forgot, if I ever heard, where 
he lodges in Liverpool. He spoke of his landlady, as a good, 
trustworthy woman; but if he named her name, it has 
slipped my memory. Can you help me, Margaret ? ” 

She appealed to her friend calmly and openly, as if 
perfectly aware of, and recognising the unspoken tie which 
bound her and Will together; she asked her in the same 
manner in which she would have asked a wife where her 
husband dwelt. And Margaret replied in the like calm tone, 
two spots of crimson on her cheeks alone bearing witness to 
any internal agitation. 

“ He lodges at a Mrs. Jones’, Milk- House Yard, out of 
Nicholas Street. He has lodged there ever since he began 
to go to sea ; she is a very decent kind of woman, I believe.” 

“Well, Mary! I’ll give you my prayers,” said Job. 
“ It’s not often I pray regular, though I often speak a word 
to God, when I’m either very happy or very sorry; I’ve 
catched myself thanking Him at odd hours when I’ve found 
a rare insect, or had a fine day for an out ; but I cannot help 
it, no more than I can talking to a friend. But this time I’ll 
pray regular for J em, and for you. And so will Margaret, 

302 


The Sub-poena 

I’ll be bound. Still, wench ! what think yo of a lawyer ? I 
know one, Mr. Cheshire, who’s rather given to th’ insect line 
— and a good kind o’ chap. He and I have swopped 
specimens many’s the time, when either of us had a dupli- 
cate. He will do me a kind turn, I’m sure. I’ll just take 
my hat, and pay him a visit.” 

No sooner said than done. 

Margaret and Mary were left alone. And this seemed to 
bring back the feeling of awkwardness, not to say estrange- 
ment. 

But Mary, excited to an unusual pitch of courage, was 
the first to break silence. 

“ Oh, Margaret ! ” said she, “ I see — I feel how wrong you 
think I have acted ; you cannot think me worse than I think 
myself, now my eyes are opened.” Here her sobs came 
choking up her voice. 

“ Nay,” Margaret began, “ I have no right to ” 

“ Yes, Margaret, you have a right to judge ; you cannot 
help it; only in your judgment remember mercy, as the 
Bible says. You, who have been always good, cannot tell 
how easy it is at first to go a little wrong, and then how 
hard it is to go back. Oh ! I little thought when I was first 
pleased with Mr. Carson’s speeches, how it would all end ; 
perhaps in the death of him I love better than life.” 

She burst into a passion of tears. The feelings pent up 
through the day would have vent. But checking herself 
with a strong effort, and looking up at Margaret as piteously 
as if those calm, stony eyes could see her imploring face, she 
added — 

“I must not cry; I must not give way; there will be 
time enough for that hereafter, if — I only wanted you to 
speak kindly to me, Margaret, for I am very, very wretched ; 
more wretched than any one can ever know ; more wretched, 
I sometimes fancy, than I have deserved — but that’s wrong, 
isn’t it, Margaret ? Oh ! I have done wrong, and I am 
punished : you cannot tell how much.” 

Who could resist her voice, her tones of misery, of 

303 


Mary Barton 

humility? Who would refuse the kindness for which she 
hegged so penitently? Not Margaret. The old friendly 
manner came back. With it, maybe, more of tenderness. 

“ Oh, Margaret ! do you think he can be saved ; do you 
think they can find him guilty, if Will comes forward as a 
witness ? Won’t that be a good alibi ?” 

Margaret did not answer for a moment. 

“ Oh, speak, Margaret ! ” said Mary, with anxious im- 
patience. 

“ I know nought about law, or alibis” replied Margaret 
meekly ; “ but, Mary, as grandfather says, aren’t you building 
too much on what Jane Wilson has told you about his 
going with Will? Poor soul, she’s gone dateless, I think, 
with care, and watching, and overmuch trouble ; and who 
can wonder? Or Jem may have told her he was going, by 
way of a blind.” 

“ You don’t know Jem,” said Mary, starting from her 
seat in a hurried manner, “ or you would not say so.” 

“ I hope I may be wrong ! but think, Mary, how much 
there is against him. The shot was fired with his gun ; he 
it was as threatened Mr. Carson not many days before ; he 
was absent from home at that very time, as we know, and, 
as I’m much afeard, some one will be called on to prove ; 
and there’s no one else to share suspicion with him.” 

Mary heaved a deep sigh. 

“ But, Margaret, he did not do it,” Mary again asserted. 

Margaret looked unconvinced. 

“ I can do no good, I see, by saying so, for none on you 
believe me, and I won’t say so again till I can prove it. 
Monday morning I’ll go to Liverpool. I shall be at hand 
for the trial. Oh dear! dear! And I will find Will; and 
then, Margaret, I think you’ll be sorry for being so stubborn 
about Jem.” 

“ Don’t fly off, dear Mary ; I’d give a deal to be wrong. 
And now I’m going to be plain-spoken. You’ll want money. 
Them lawyers is no better than a sponge for sucking up 
money ; let alone your hunting out Will, and your keep in 

304 


The Sub-pcena 

Liverpool, and what not. You must take some of the mint 
I’ve got laid by in the old tea-pot. You have no right to 
refuse, for I offer it to Jem, not to you ; it’s for his purposes 
you’re to use it.” 

“ I know — I see. Thank you, Margaret ; you’re a kind 
one, at any rate. I take it for Jem ; and I’ll do my very 
best with it for him. Not all, though ; don’t think I’ll take 
all. They’ll pay me for my keep. I’ll take this,” accepting 
a sovereign from the hoard which Margaret produced out 
of its accustomed place in the cupboard. “ Your grandfather 
will pay the lawyer, I’ll have nought to do with him,” 
shuddering as she remembered Job’s words about lawyers’ 
skill in always discovering the truth, sooner or later; and 
knowing what was the secret she had to hide. 

“ Bless you ! don’t make such ado about it,” said 
Margaret, cutting short Mary’s thanks. “ I sometimes think 
there’s two sides to the commandment; and that we may 
say, ‘ Let others do unto you, as you would do unto them ; ’ 
for pride often prevents our giving others a great deal of 
pleasure, in not letting them be kind, when their hearts are 
longing to help ; and wheii\we ourselves should wish to do 
just the same, if we were in their place. Oh! how often 
I’ve been hurt by being coldly told by persons not to trouble 
myself about their care, or sorrow, when I saw them in great 
grief, and wanted to be of comfort. Our Lord Jesus was not 
above letting folk minister to Him, for He knew how happy 
it makes one to do aught for another. It’s the happiest 
work on earth.” 

Mary had been too much engrossed by watching what 
was passing in the street to attend very closely to that which 
Margaret was saying. From her seat she could see out of 
the window pretty plainly, and she caught sight of a gentle- 
man walking alongside of Job, evidently in earnest conversa- 
tion with him, and looking keen and penetrating enough to 
be a lawyer. Job was laying down something to be attended 
to, she could see by his uplifted forefinger, and his whole 
gesture; then he pointed and nodded across the street to 

305 X 


Mary Barton 

his own house, as if inducing his companion to come in. 
Mary dreaded lest he should, and she be subjected to a 
closer cross-examination than she had hitherto undergone, 
as to why she was so certain that Jem was innocent. She 
feared he was coming ; he stepped a little towards the spot. 
No 1 it was only to make way for a child, tottering along, 
whom Mary had overlooked. Now Job took him by the 
button, so earnestly familiar had he grown. The gentleman 
looked “ fidging fain ” to be gone, but submitted in a manner 
that made Mary like him in spite of his profession. Then 
came a volley of last words, answered by briefest nods, and 
monosyllables ; and then the stranger went off with redoubled 
quickness of pace, and Job crossed the street with a little 
satisfied air of importance on his kindly face. 

“ Well ! Mary,” said he on entering, “ I’ve seen the 
lawyer, not Mr. Cheshire though ; trials for murder, it seems, 
are not his fine o’ business. But he gived me a note to 
another ’torney ; a fine fellow enough, only too much of a 
talker ; I could hardly get a word in, he cut me so short. 
However, I’ve just been going over the principal points again 
to him ; maybe you saw us ! I wanted him just to come 
over and speak to you himsel, Mary, but he was pressed for 
time ; and he said your evidence would not be much either 
here or there. He’s going to the ’sizes first train on Monday 
morning, and will see Jem, and hear the ins and outs from 
him, and he’s gived me his address, Mary, and you and Will 
are to call on him (Will ’special) on Monday, at two o’clock. 
Thou’rt taking it in, Mary ; thou’rt to call on hirq/in Liverpool 
at two, Monday afternoon ? ” 

Job had reason to doubt if she fully understood him ; for 
all this minuteness of detail, these satisfactory arrangements, 
as he considered them, only seemed to bring the circum- 
stances in which she was placed more vividly home to Mary. 
They convinced her that it was real, and not all a dieam, as 
she had sunk into fancying it for a few minutes, while sitting 
in the old accustomed place, her body enjoying the rest, and 
her frame sustained by food, and listening to Margaret’s 

306 


The Sub-poena 

calm voice. The gentleman she had just beheld would see 
and question Jem in a few hours, and what would be the 
result ? 

Monday : that was the day after to-morrow, and on 
Tuesday, life and death would be tremendous realities to 
her lover ; or else death would be an awful certainty to her 
father. 

No ’wonder Job went over his main points again — 

“Monday; at two o’clock, mind; and here’s his card. 
‘ Mr. Bridgnorth, 41 Eenshaw Street, Liverpool.’ He’ll be 
lodging there.” 

J oh ceased talking, and the silence roused Mary up to 
thank him. 

“ You’re very kind, Job ; very. You and Margaret won’t 
desert me, come what will.” 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! wench ; don’t lose heart, just as I’m 
beginning to get it. He seems to think a deal on Will’s 
evidence. You’re sure, girls, you’re under no mistake about 
Will?” 

“ I’m sure,” said Mary, “ he went straight from here, 
purposing to go to see his uncle at the Isle of Man, and be 
back Sunday night, ready for the ship sailing on Tuesday.” 

“ So am I,” said Margaret. “ And the ship’s name was 
the John Cropper^ and he lodged where I told Mary before. 
Have you got it down, Mary ? ” Mary wrote it on the back 
of Mr. Bridgnorth’s card. 

“ He was not over- willing to go,” said she, as she wrote, 
“ for he knew little about his uncle, and said he didn’t care 
if he never know’d more. But he said kinsfolk was kinsfolk, 
and promises was promises ; so he’d go for a day or so, and 
then it would be over.” 

Margaret had to go and practise some singing in town ; 
so, though loth to depart and be alone, Mary bade her friends 
good-bye. 


3^7 


Mary Barton 


CHAPTEE XXIV 

WITH THE DYING 

“ Oh, sad and solemn is the trembling watch 
Of those who sit and coimt the heavy hours 
Beside the fevered sleep of one they love I 
Oh, awful is it in the hushed midnight, 

While gazing on the pallid, moveless form, 

To start and ask, ‘ Is it now sleep or death ? ’ ” 

Anonymous. 

Mary could not be patient in her loneliness ; so much painful 
thought weighed on her mind ; the very house was haunted 
with memories and foreshadowings. 

Having performed all duties to Jem, as far as her weak 
powers, yet loving heart could act ; and a black veil being 
drawn over her father’s past, present, and future hfe, beyond 
which she could not penetrate to judge of any filial service 
she ought to render: her mind unconsciously sought after 
some course of action in which she might engage. Anything, 
anything, rather than leisure for reflection. 

And then came up the old feeling which first bound Euth 
to Naomi ; the love they both held towards one object ; and 
Mary felt that her cares would be most lightened by being 
of use, or of comfort to his mother. So she once more locked 
up the house, and set off towards Ancoats ; rushing along 
with downcast head, for fear lest any one should recognise 
her and arrest her progress. 

Jane Wilson sat quietly in her chair as Mary entered ; so 
quietly, as to strike one by the contrast it presented to her 
usual bustling and nervous manner. 

She looked very pale and wan : but the quietness was 
the thing that struck Mary most. She did not rise as Mary 
came in, but sat still and said something in so gentle, so 
feeble a voice, that Mary did not catch it. 

Mrs. Davenport, who was there, plucked Mary by the 
308 


With the Dying 

gown, and whispered, “Never heed her; she’s worn-out, 
and best let alone. I’ll tell you all about it, upstairs.” 

But Mary, touched by the anxious look with which Mrs. 
Wilson gazed at her, as if waiting the answer to some 
question, went forward to listen to the speech she was again 
repeating. 

“ What is this ? will you tell me ? ” 

Then Mary looked, and saw another ominous slip of 
parchment in the mother’s hand, which she was rolling up 
and down in a tremulous manner between her fingers. 

Mary’s heart sickened within her; and she could not 
speak. 

“ What is it ? ” she repeated. “ Will you tell me ? ” She 
still looked at Mary, with the same child-like gaze of wonder 
and patient entreaty. 

What could she answer ? 

“ I telled ye not to heed her,” said Mrs. Davenport, a 
little angrily. “ She knows well enough what it is, — too 
well, behke. I was not in when they sarved it ; but Mrs. 
Heming (her as lives next door) was, and she spelled out 
the meaning, and made it all clear to Mrs. Wilson. It’s a 
summons to be a witness on Jem’s trial — Mrs. Heming 
thinks, to swear to the gun; for yo see, there’s nobbut* 
her as can testify to its being his, and she let on so easily 
to the policeman that it was his, that there’s no getting 
off her word now. Poor body; she takes it very hard, I 
dare say ! ” 

Mrs. Wilson had waited patiently while this whispered 
speech was being uttered, imagining, perhaps, that it would 
end in some explanation addressed to her. But when both 
were silent, though their eyes, without speech or language, 
told their heart’s pity, she spoke again in the same unaltered 
gentle voice (so different from the irritable impatience she 
had been ever apt to show to every one except her husband 
— he who had wedded her, broken-down and injured) in a 

* “ Nobbut,” none-but. “ No man sigh evere God no hut the oon 
bigetun sone.” — Wickliffe's Version. 

309 


Mary Barton 

voice so different, I say, from the old, hasty manner, she 
spoke now the same anxious words — 

“ What is this ? Will you tell me ? ” 

“ Yo’d better give it me at once, Mrs. Wilson, and let me 
put it out of your sight. Speak to her, Mary, wench, and 
ask for a sight on it; I’ve tried and better- tried to get it 
from her, and she takes no heed of words, and I’m loth to 
pull it by force out of her hands.” 

Mary drew the little “ cricket ” * out from under the 
dresser, and sat down at Mrs. Wilson’s knee, and, coaxing 
one of her tremulous ever-moving hands into hers, began 
to rub it soothingly; there was a little resistance — a very 
little, but that was all ; and presently, in the nervous move- 
ment of the imprisoned hand, the parchment fell to the 
ground. 

Mary calmly and openly picked it up, without any attempt 
at concealment, and, quietly placing it in sight of the anxious 
eyes that followed it with a kind of spell-bound dread, went 
on with her soothing caresses. 

“ She has had no sleep for many nights,” said the girl to 
Mrs. Davenport, “ and all this woe and sorrow, — it’s no 
wonder.” 

“No, indeed ! ” Mrs. Davenport answered. 

“We must get her fairly to bed ; we must get her un- 
dressed, and all ; and trust to God in His mercy to send her 
to sleep, or else ” 

For, you see, they spoke before her as if she were not 
there ; her heart was so far away. 

Accordingly they almost lifted her from the chair, in 
which she sat motionless, and, taking her up as gently as a 
toother carries her sleeping baby, they undressed her poor, 
worn form, and laid her in the little bed upstairs. They had 
once thought of placing her in Jem’s bed, to be out of sight 
or sound of any disturbance of Alice’s ; but then again they 
remembered the shock she might receive in awakening in so 
unusual a place, and also that Mary, who intended to keep 
* “ Cricket,” a stool. 

310 


With the Dying 

vigil that night in the house of mourning, would find it 
difficult to divide her attention in the possible cases that 
might ensue. 

So they laid her, as I said before, on that little pallet-bed ; 
and, as they were slowly withdrawing from the bed-side, 
hoping and praying that she might sleep, and forget for a 
time her heavy burden, she looked wistfully after Mary, and 
whispered — 

“ You haven’t told me what it is. What is it ? ” 

And gazing in her face for the expected answer, her eye- 
lids slowly closed, and she fell into a deep, heavy sleep, 
almost as profound a rest as death. 

Mrs. Davenport went her way, and Mary was alone, — 
for I cannot call those who sleep allies against the agony of 
thought which solitude sometimes brings up. 

She dreaded the night before her. Alice might die ; the 
doctor had that day declared her case hopeless, and not far 
from death ; and, at times, the terror so natural to the young, 
not of death, but of the remains of the dead, came over Mary ; 
and she bent and listened anxiously for the long-drawn, 
pausing breath of the sleeping Alice. 

Or Mrs. Wilson might awake in a state which Mary 
dreaded to anticipate, and anticipated while she dreaded ; — 
in a state of complete delirium. Already her senses had been 
severely stunned by the full explanation of what was required 
of her, — of what she had to prove against her son, her Jem, 
her only child, — which Mary could not doubt the officious 
Mrs. Homing had given ; and what if in dreams (that land 
into which no sympathy nor love can penetrate with another, 
either to share its bliss or its agony, — that land whose scenes 
are unspeakable terrors, are hidden mysteries, are priceless 
treasures to one alone, — that land where alone I may see, 
while yet I tarry here, the sweet looks of my dear child), — 
what if, in the horrors of her dreams, her brain should go 
still more, astray, and she should waken crazy with her 
visions, and the terrible reality that begot them ? 

How much worse is anticipation sometimes than reality ! 

3 ” 


Mary Barton 

How Mary dreaded that night, and how calmly it passed by ! 
Even more so than if Mary had not had such claims upon 
her care ! 

Anxiety about them deadened her own peculiar anxieties. 
She thought of the sleepers whom she was watching, till, 
overpowered herself by the want of rest, she fell off into short 
slumbers in which the night wore imperceptibly away. To 
be sure, Alice spoke, and sang during her waking moments, 
like the child she deemed herself ; but so happily with the 
dearly-loved ones around her, with the scent of the heather, 
and the song of the wild bird hovering about her in imagina- 
tion — with old scraps of ballads, or old snatches of primitive 
versions of the Psalms (such as are sung in country churches 
half draperied over with ivy, and where the running brook, 
or the murmuring wind among the trees, makes fit accom- 
paniment to the chorus of human voices uttering praise and 
thanksgiving to their God) — that the speech and the song 
gave comfort and good cheer to the listener’s heart, and the 
grey davm began to dim the light of the rush-candle, before 
Mary thought it possible that day was already trembling in 
the horizon. 

Then she got up from the chair where she had been dozing, 
and went, half-asleep, to the window to assure herself that 
morning was at hand. The streets were unusually quiet 
with a Sabbath stillness. No factory bells that morning ; no 
early workmen going to their labours ; no slip-shod girls 
cleaning the windows of the little shops which broke the 
monotony of the street ; instead, you might see here and 
there some operative sallying forth for a breath of country 
air, or some father leading out his wee toddling bairns for 
the unwonted pleasure of a walk with “ Daddy,” in the clear 
frosty morning. Men with more leisure on week-days would 
perhaps have walked quicker than they did through the fresh 
sharp air of this Sunday morning ; but to them there was a 
pleasure, an absolute refreshment in the dawdling gait they, 
one and all of them, had. 

There were, indeed, one or two passengers on that morning 
312 


With the Dying 

whose objects were less innocent and less praiseworthy 
than those of the people I have already mentioned, and 
whose animal state of mind and body clashed jarringly on 
the peacefulness of the day, but upon them I will not dwell ; 
as you and I, and almost every one, I think, may send up 
our individual cry of self-reproach that we have not done 
all that we could for the stray and wandering ones of our 
brethren. 

When Mary turned from the window, she went to the 
bed of each sleeper, to look and listen. Alice looked perfectly 
quiet and happy in her slumber, and her face seemed to have 
become much more youthful during the painless approach to 
death. 

Mrs. Wilson’s countenance- was stamped with the anxiety 
of the last few days, although she, too, appeared sleeping 
soundly ; but as Mary gazed on her, trjdng to trace a like- 
ness to her son in her face, she awoke and looked up into 
Mary’s eyes, while the expression of consciousness came 
back into her own. 

Both were silent for a minute or two. Mary’s eyes had 
fallen beneath that penetrating gaze, in which the agony of 
memory seemed every minute to find fuller vent. 

“ Is it a dream ? ” the mother asked at last in a low voice. 

“ No ! ” replied Mary, in the same tone. 

Mrs. Wilson hid her face in the pillow. 

She was fully conscious of everything this morning; it 
was evident that the stunning effect of the sub-poena, which 
had affected her so much last night in her weak, worn-out 
state, had passed away. Mary offered no opposition when 
she indicated by languid gesture and action that she wished 
to rise. A sleepless bed is a haunted place. 

When she was dressed with Mary’s aid, she stood by 
Alice for a minute or two looking at the slumberer. 

“ How happy she is ! ” said she, quietly and sadly. 

All the time that Mary was getting breakfast ready, and 
performing every other little domestic office she could think 
of, to add to the comfort of Jem’s mother, Mrs. Wilson sat 

313 


Mary Barton 

still in the arm-chair, watching her silently. Her old irrita- 
tion of temper and manner seemed to have suddenly dis- 
appeared, or perhaps she was too depressed in body and 
mind to show it. 

Mary told her all that had been done with regard to Mr. 
Bridgnorth ; all her own plans for seeking out Will ; all her 
hopes ; and concealed as well as she could all the doubts and 
fears that would arise unbidden. To this Mrs. Wilson listened 
without much remark, but with deep interest and perfect 
comprehension. When Mary ceased, she sighed and said, 
“ Oh, wench ! I am his mother, and yet I do so little, I can do 
so Uttle ! That’s what frets me ! I seem like a child as sees 
its mammy ill, and moans and cries its little heart out, yet 
does nought to help. I think my sense has left me all at 
once, and I can’t even find strength to cry like the little 
child.” 

Hereupon she broke into a feeble wail of self-reproach, 
that her outward show of misery was not greater ; as if any, 
cries, or tears, or loud- spoken words could have told of such^ 
pangs at the heart as that look, and that thin, piping, altered 
voice ! 

But think of Mary and what she was enduring ! Picture 
to yourself (for I cannot tell you) the armies of thoughts that 
met and clashed in her brain ; and then imagine the effort it 
cost her to be calm, and quiet, and even in a faint way, 
cheerful and smiling at times. 

After a while she began to stir about in her own mind for 
some means of sparing the poor mother the trial of appear- 
ing as a witness in the matter of the gun. She had made no 
allusion to her summons this morning, and Mary almost 
thought she must have forgotten it ; and surely some means 
might be found to prevent that additional sorrow. She must 
see Job about it ; nay, if necessary, she must see Mr. Bridg- 
north, with all his truth-compelling powers ; for, indeed, she 
had so struggled and triumphed (though a sadly-bleeding 
victor at heart) over herself these two last days, had so con- 
cealed agony, and hidden her inward woe and bewilderment, 

314 


With the Dying 

that she began to take confidence, and to have faith in her 
own powers of meeting ahy one with a passably fair show, 
whatever might be rending her life beneath the cloak of her 
deception. 

Accordingly, as soon as Mrs. Davenport came in after 
morning church, to ask after the two lone women, and she 
had heard the report Mary had to give (so much better as 
regarded Mrs. Wilson than what they had feared the night 
before it would have been), — as soon as this kind-hearted, 
grateful woman came in, Mary, telling her purpose, went off 
to fetch the doctor who attended Alice. 

He was shaking himself after his morning’s round, and 
happy in the anticipation of his Sunday’s dinner ; but he was 
a good-tempered man, who found it difficult to keep down 
his jovial easiness even by the bed of sickness or death. He 
had mischosen his profession ; for it was his delight to see 
every one around him in full enjoyment of life. 

However, he subdued his face to the proper expression of 
sympathy, befitting a doctor listening to a patient, or a 
patient’s friend (and Mary’s sad, pale, anxious face, might 
be taken for either the one, or the other). 

“ Well, my girl ! and what brings you here ? ” said he, 
as he entered his surgery. “Not on your own account, I 
hope ? ” 

“ I wanted you to come and see Alice Wilson, — and then 
I thought you would maybe take a look at Mrs. Wilson.” 

He bustled on his hat and coat, and followed Mary 
instantly. 

After shaking his head over Alice (as if it was a mournful 
thing for one so pure and good, so true, although so humble 
a Christian, to be nearing her desired haven), and muttering 
the accustomed words intended to destroy hope, and prepare 
anticipation, he went, in compliance with Mary’s look, to 
ask the usual questions of Mrs. Wilson, who sat passively in 
her armchair. 

She answered his questions, and submitted to his 
examination. 


315 


Mary Barton 

“ How do you think her ? ” asked Mary eagerly. 

“ Why — a,” began he, perceiving that he was desired tc 
take one side in his answer, and unable to find out whether 
his listener was anxious for a favourable verdict or other- 
wise ; but, thinking it most probable that she would desire 
the former, he continued : 

“ She is weak, certainly ; the natural result of such a 
shock as the arrest of her son would be, — for I understand 
this James Wilson, who murdered Mr. Carson, was her son. 
Sad thing to have such a reprobate in the family.” 

“You say ‘ who murdered , sir ! ” said Mary indignantly. 
“ He is only taken up on suspicion, and many have no doubt 
of his innocence — those who know him, sir.” 

“ Ah ! well, well ! doctors have seldom time to read news- 
papers, and I dare say I’m not very correct in my story. I 
dare say he’s innocent ; I’m sure I had no right to say 
otherwise, — only words slip out. — No ! indeed, young woman, 
I see no cause for apprehension about this poor creature in 
the next room ; — weak — certainly ; but a day or two’s good 
nursing will set her up, and I’m sure you’re a good nurse, 
my dear, from your pretty kind-hearted face;— I’ll send a 
couple of pills and a draught, but don’t alarm yourself — 
there’s no occasion, I assure you.” 

“ But you don’t think her fit to go to Liverpool ? ” asked 
Mary, still in the anxious tone of one who wishes earnestly 
for some particular decision. 

“ To Liverpool — yes,” replied he. “ A short journey like 
that couldn’t fatigue, and might distract her thoughts. Let 
her go by all means, — it would be the very thing for her.” 

“0, sir ! ” burst out Mary, almost sobbing ; “I did so 
hope you would say she was too ill to go.” 

“Whew” said he, with a prolonged whistle, trying to 
understand the case ; but being, as he said, no reader of 
newspapers, utterly unaware of the peculiar reasons there 
might be for so apparently unfeeling a wish, — Why did you 
not tell me so sooner ? It might certainly do her harm in 
her weak state ! there is always some risk attending journeys 

316 


With the Dying 

— draughts, and what not. To her, they might prove very 
injurious,— very. I disapprove of journeys or excitement, 
in all cases where the patient is in the low, fluttered state in 
which Mrs. Wilson is. If you take my advice, you will 
certainly put a stop to all thoughts of going to Liverpool.” 
He really had completely changed his opinion, though quite 
unconsciously ; so desirous was he to comply with the wishes 
of others. 

“ Oh, sir, thank you ! And will you give me a certificate 
of her being unable to go, if the lawyer says we must have 
one ? The lawyer, you know,” continued she, seeing him 
looked puzzled, “ who is to defend Jem, — it was as a witness 
against him ” 

“ My dear girl ! ” said he almost angrily, “ why did you 
not state the case fully at first ? one minute would have 
done it, — and my dinner waiting all this time. To be sure 
she can’t go, — it would be madness to think of it; if her 
evidence could have done good, it would have been a difi“erent 
thing. Come to me for the certificate any time ; that is to 
say, if the lawyer advises you. I second the lawyer ; take 
counsel with both the learned professions — ha, ha, ha.” 

And, laughing at his own joke, he departed, leaving Mary 
accusing herself of stupidity in having imagined that every 
one was as well acquainted with the facts concerning the 
trial as she was herself ; for indeed she had never doubted 
that the doctor would have befen aware of the purpose of 
poor Mrs. Wilson’s journey to Liverpool. 

Presently she went to Job* (the ever ready Mrs. Daven- 
port keeping watch over the two old women), and told him 
her fears, her plans, and her proceedings. 

To her surprise he shook his head doubtfully. 

“ It may have an awkward look, if we keep her back. 
Lawyers is up to tricks.” 

“ But it is no trick,” said Mary. “ She is so poorly, she 
was last night so, at least ; and to-day she’s so faded and 
weak.” 

** Poor soul I I dare say. I only mean for Jem’s sake \ 

317 


Mary Barton 

and so much is known, it won’t do now to hang back. But 
I'll ask Mr. Bridgnorth. I’ll e’en take your doctor’s advice. 
Yo tarry at home, and I’ll come to yo in an hour’s time. Go 
thy ways, wench.” - 


CHAPTER XXV 
MBS. Wilson’s detebmination 

” Something there was : what, none presumed to say. 

Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day, — 

Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear. 

And mixed reports no judge on earth could clear.” 

Crabbe. 

“ Curious conjectures he may always make, 

And either side of dubious questions take.” 

Id. 

Maby went home. Oh ! how her head did ache, and how 
dizzy her brain was growing ! But there would be time 
enough, she felt, for giving way hereafter. 

So she sat quiet and still by an effort ; sitting near the 
window, and looking out of it, but seeing nothing ; when all 
at once she caught sight of something which roused her up, 
and made her draw back. 

But it was too late. She had been seen. 

Sally Leadbitter flaunted into the little dingy room, 
making it gaudy with the Sunday excess of colouring in her 
dress. 

She was really curious to see Mary ; her connection with 
a murderer seemed to have made her into a sort of lusus 
naturae, and was almost, by some, expected to have made a 
change in her personal appearance, so earnestly did they 
stare at her. But Mary had been too much absorbed the 
last day or two to notice this. 

318 


Mrs. Wilson’s Determination 

Now Sally had a grand view, and looked her over and 
over (a very different thing from looking her through and 
through), and almost learnt her off by heart : — “ Her everyday 
gown (Hoyle’s print you know, that lilac thing with the 
high body) she was so fond of ; a little black silk handker- 
chief just knotted round her neck, like a boy ; her hair all 
taken back from her face, as if she wanted to keep her head 
cool — she would always keep that hair of hers so long ; and 
her hands twitching continually about.” 

Such particulars would make Sally into a Gazette Extra- 
ordinary the next morning at the workroom and were worth 
coming for, even if little else could be extracted from Mary. 

“ Why, Mary ! ” she began. “ Where have you hidden 
yourself? You never showed your face all yesterday at 
Miss Simmonds’s. You don’t fancy we think any the worse 
of you for what’s come and gone. Some of us, indeed, were 
a bit sorry for the poor young man, as lies stiff and cold for 
your sake, Mary ; but we shall ne’er cast it up against you. 
Miss Simmonds, too, will be mighty put out if you don’t 
come, for there’s a deal of mourning agait.” 

“ I can’t,” Mary said, in a low voice. “ I don’t mean 
ever to come again.” 

“ Why, Mary ! ” said Sally, in unfeigned surprise. “ To be 
sure, you’ll have to be in Liverpool, Tuesday, and maybe 
Wednesday; but after that you’ll surely come, and tell us 
all about it. Miss Simmonds knows you’ll have to be off 
those two days. But, between you and me, she’s a bit of a 
gossip, and will like hearing all how and about the trial, well 
enough to let you off very easy for your being absent a day 
or two. Besides, Betsy Morgan was saying yesterday, she 
shouldn’t wonder but you’d prove quite an attraction to 
customers. Many a one would come and have their gowns 
made by Miss Simmonds just to catch a glimpse at you, 
after the trial’s over. Eeally, Mary, you’ll turn out quite a 
heroine.” 

The little fingers twitched worse than ever; the large 
soft eyes looked up pleadingly into Sally’s face ; but she went 

319 


Mary Barton 

on in the same 'strain, not from any unkind or cruel feeling 
towards Mary, but solely because she was incapable of com- 
prehending her suffering. 

She had been shocked, of course, at Mr. Carson’s death, 
though at the same time the excitement was rather pleasant 
than otherwise ; and dearly now would she have enjoyed the 
conspicuous notice which Mary was sure to receive. 

“ How shall you like being cross-examined, Mary ? ” 

“Not at all,” answered Mary, when she found she must 
answer. 

“ La ! what impudent fellows those lawyers are ! And 
their clerks, too, not a bit better. I shouldn’t wonder ” (in 
a comforting tone, and really believing she was giving 
comfort) “ if you picked up a new sweetheart in Liverpool. 
What gown are you going in, Mary ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know and don’t care,” exclaimed Mary, 
sick and weary of her visitor. 

“ Well, then ! take my advice, and go in that blue merino. 
It’s old to be sure, and a bit worn at elbows, but folk won’t 
notice that, and th’ colour suits you. Now mind, Mary. 
And I’ll lend you my black- watered scarf,” added she, really 
good-naturedly, according to her sense of things, and, withal, 
a little bit pleased at the idea of her pet article of dress 
figuring away on the person of a witness at a trial for murder. 

“ I’ll bring it to-morrow before you start.” 

“ No, don’t ! ” said Mary; “ thank you, but I don’t want it.” 

“ Why, what can you wear ? I know all your clothes as 
well as I do my own, and what is there you can wear ? Not 
your old plaid shawl, I do hope? You would not fancy 
this I have on, more nor the scarf, would you ? ” said she, 
brightening up at the thought, and willing to lend it, or 
anything else. 

“ O Sally ! don’t go on talking a-that-ns ; how can I think 
on dress at such a time? When it’s a matter of life and 
death to Jem ? ” 

“Bless the girl! It’s Jem, is it? Well, now I thought 
there was some sweetheart in the background, when you flew 

320 


Mrs. Wilson’s Determination 

off SO with Mr. Carson. Then what, in the name of good- 
ness, made him shoot Mr, Harry ? After you had given up 
going with him, I mean ? Was he afraid you’d be on again ? ” 

• “How dare you say he shot Mr. Harry?” asked Mary, 
firing up from the state of languid indifference into which 
she had sunk while Sally had been settling about her dress. 
“ But it’s no matter what you think, as did not know him. 
What grieves me is, that people should go on thinking him 
guilty as did know him,” she said, sinking back into her 
former depressed tone and manner. 

“ And don’t you think he did it ? ” asked Sally. 

Mary paused ; she was going on too fast with one so 
curious and so unscrupulous. Besides, she remembered how 
even she herself had, at first, believed him guilty; and she 
felt it was not for her to cast stones at those who, on similar 
evidence, inclined to the same belief. None had given him 
much benefit of a doubt. None had faith in his innocence. 
None but his mother ; and there the heart loved more than 
the head reasoned, and her yearning affection had never for 
an instant entertained the idea that her Jem was a murderer. 
But Mary disliked the whole conversation ; the subject, the 
manner in which it was treated, were all painful, and she had 
a repugnance to the person with whom she spoke. 

She was thankful, therefore, when Job Legh’s voice was 
heard at the door, as he stood with the latch in his hand, 
talking to a neighbour, and when Sally jumped up in vexation 
and said, “ There’s that old fogey coming in here, as I’m 
alive ! Did your father set him to look after you while he 
was away? or what brings the old chap here? However, 
I’m off ; I never could abide either him or his prim grand- 
daughter. Good-bye, Mary.” 

So far in a whisper, then louder, “ If you think better of 
my offer about the scarf, Mary, just step in to-morrow before 
nine, and you’re quite welcome to it.” 

She and Job passed each other at the door, with mutual 
looks of dislike, which neither took any pains to conceal. 

“ Yon’s a bold, bad girl,” said Job to Mary. 


Y 


Mary Barton 

“ She’s very good-natured,” replied Mary, too honourable 
to abuse a visitor who had only that instant crossed her 
threshold, and gladly dwelling on the good quality most 
apparent in Sally’s character. 

“ Ay, ay ! good-natured, generous, jolly, full of fun ; 
there are a number of other names for the good qualities the 
devil leaves his children, as baits to catch gudgeons with. 
D’ye think folk could be led astray by one who was every 
way bad ? Howe’er, that’s not what I came to talk about. 
I’ve seen Mr. Bridgnorth, and he is in a manner of the same 
mind as we ; he thinks it would have an awkward look, and 
might tell against the poor lad on his trial; still, if she’s 
ill she’s ill, and it can’t be helped.” 

“ I don’t know if she’s so bad as all that,” said Mary, who 
began to dread her part in doing anything which might tell 
against her poor lover. 

“Will you come and see her. Job ? The doctor seemed 
to say as I liked, not as he thought.” 

“ That’s because he had no great thought on the subject, 
either one way or t’other,” replied Job, whose contempt for 
medical men pretty nearly equalled his respect for lawyers. 
“ But I’ll go and welcome. I ban not seen th’ ould ladies 
since their sorrows, and it’s but manners to go and ax after 
them. Come along.” 

The room at Mrs. Wilson’s had that still, changeless look 
you must have often observed in the house of sickness or 
mourning. No particular employment going on ; people 
watching and waiting rather than acting, unless in the more 
sudden and violent attacks : what little movement is going 
on, so noiseless and hushed ; the furniture all arranged and 
stationary, with a view to the comfort of the afflicted ; the 
window-blinds drawn down, to keep out the disturbing variety 
of a sunbeam ; the same saddened serious look on the faces 
of the indwellers : you fall back into the same train of 
thought with all these associations, and forget the street, the 
outer world, in the contemplation of the one stationary, 
absorbing interest within. 


322 


Mrs. Wilson’s Determination 

Mrs. Wilson sat quietly in her chair, with just the same 
look Mary had left on her face ; Mrs. Davenport went about 
with creaking shoes which made all the more noise from her 
careful and lengthened tread, annoying the ears of those who 
were well, in this instance, far more than the dull senses of 
the sick and the sorrowful. Alice’s voice still was going on 
cheerfully in the upper room with incessant talking and Httle 
laughs to herself, or perhaps in sympathy with her unseen 
companions — “ unseen,” I say, in preference to “ fancied,” 
for who knows whether God does not permit the forms of 
those who were dearest when living, to hover round the bed 
of the dying ? 

Job spoke, and Mrs. Wilson answered. 

So quietly that it was unnatural under the circumstances. 
It made a deeper impression on the old man than any token 
of mere bodily illness could have done. If she had raved in 
dehrium, or moaned in fever, he could have spoken after his 
wont, and given his opinion, his advice, and his consolation ; 
now he was awed into silence. 

At length he pulled Mary aside into a comer of the house- 
place, where Mrs. Wilson was sitting, and began to talk 
to her. 

“ Yo’re right, Mary ! She’s no ways fit to go to Liver- 
pool, poor soul. Now I’ve seen her I only wonder the doctor 
could ha’ been unsettled in his mind at th’ first. Choose 
how it goes wi’ poor Jem, she cannot go. One way or 
another it will soon be over, the best to leave her in the 
state she is till then.” 

” I was sure you would think so,” said Mary. 

But they were reckoning without their host. They 
esteemed her senses gone, while, in fact, they were only 
inert, and could not convey impressions rapidly to the over- 
burdened, troubled brain. They had not noticed that her 
eyes had followed them (mechanically it seemed at first) 
as they had moved away to the corner of the room ; that 
her face, hitherto so changeless, had begun to work with one 
or two of the old symptoms of impatience. 

323 


Mary Barton 

But when they were silent she stood up, and startled 
them almost as if a dead person had spoken, by saying 
clearly and decidedly — “ I go to Liverpool. I hear you and 
your plans ; and I tell you I shall go to Liverpool. If my 
words are to kill my son, they have already gone forth out 
of my mouth, and nought can bring them back. But I will 
have faith. Alice (up above) has often telled me I wanted 
faith, and now I will have it. They cannot — they will not 
kill my child, my only child. I will not be af eared. Yet 
oh ! I am so sick with terror. But if he is to die, think 
ye not that I will see him again ; ay ! see him at his trial ? 
When all are hating him, he shall have his poor mother near 
him, to give him all the comfort, eyes, and looks, and tears, 
and a heart that is dead to all but him, can give; his poor 
old mother, who knows how free he is from sin — in the 
sight of man at least. They’ll let me gO to him, maybe, 
the very minute it’s over ; and I know many Scripture texts 
(though you would not think it), that may keep up his heart. 
I missed seeing him ere he went to yon prison, but nought 
shall keep me away again one minute when I can see his 
face ; for maybe the minutes are numbered, and the count 
but small. I know I can be a comfort to him, poor lad. 
You would not think it now, but he’d always speak as kind 
and soft to me as if he were courting me, hke. He loved 
me above a bit ; and am I to leave him now to dree * all 
the cruel slander they’ll put upon him ? I can pray for him 
at each hard word they say against him, if I can do nought 
else ; and he’ll know what his mother, is doing for him, poor 
lad, by the look on my face.” 

Still they made some look, or gesture of opposition to her 
wishes. She turned sharp round on Mary, the old object of 
her pettish attacks, and said, “ Now, wench ! once for all, I 
tell you this. He could never guide me; and he’d sense 
enough not to try. What he could na do, don’t you try. I 
shall go to Liverpool to-morrow, and find my lad, and stay 
with him through thick and thin; and if he dies, why, 

♦ A. S. “ dreogan,” to suffer, endure. 

324 


Mrs. Wilson’s Determination 

perhaps, God of His mercy will take me too. The grave is a 
sure cure for an aching heart ! ” 

She sank hack in her chair, quite exhausted by the sudden 
effort she had made ; but, if they even offered to speak, she 
cut them short (whatever the subject might be), with the 
repetition of the same words, “ I shall go to Liverpool.” 

No more could be said, the doctor’s opinion had been so 
undecided ; Mr. Bridgnorth had given his legal voice in 
favour of her going, and Mary was obliged to relinquish the 
idea of persuading her to remain at home, if, indeed, under 
all the circumstances, it could be thought desirable. 

“ Best way will be,” said Job, “ for me to hunt out Will, 
early to-morrow morning, and yo, Mary, come at after with 
Jane Wilson. I know a decent woman where yo two can 
have a bed, and where we may meet together when I’ve 
found Will, afore going to Mr. Bridgnorth’s at two o’clock ; 
for, I can tell him. I’ll not trust none of his clerks for hunting 
up Will, if Jem’s life’s to depend on it.” 

Now Mary disliked this plan inexpressibly ; her dislike 
was partly grounded on reason, and partly on feeling. She 
could not bear the idea of deputing to any one the active 
measures necessary to be taken in order to save Jem. She 
felt as if they were her duty, her right. She durst not trust 
to any one the completion of her plan : they might not have 
energy, or perseverance, or desperation enough to follow out 
the slightest chance ; and her love would endow her with all 
these qualities independently of the terrible alternative which 
awaited her in case all failed and Jem was condemned. No 
one could have her motives ; and consequently no one could 
have her sharpened brain, her despairing determination. 
Besides (only that was purely selfish), she could not endure 
the suspense of remaining quiet, and only knowing the result 
when all was accomplished. 

So with vehemence and impatience she rebutted every 
reason Job adduced for his plan ; and of course, thus opposed, 
by what appeared to him wilfulness, he became more reso- 
lute, and angry y^ords were exchanged, and a feeling of 

325 


Mary Barton 

estrangement rose up between them, for a time, as they 
walked homewards. 

• But then came in Margaret with her gentleness, like an 
angel of peace, so calm and reasonable, that both felt 
ashamed of their irritation, and tacitly left the decision to 
her (only, by the way, I think Mary could never have sub- 
mitted if it had gone against her, penitent and tearful as was 
her manner now to Job, the good old man who was helping 
her to work for Jem, although they differed as to the manner). 

“ Mary had better go,” said Margaret to her grandfather, 
in a low tone, “ I know what she’s feeling, and it will be a 
comfort to her soon, maybe, to think she did all she could 
herself. She would, perhaps, fancy it might have been 
different ; do, grandfather, let her.” 

Margaret had still, you see, little or no belief in Jem’s 
innocence ; and besides she thought if Mary saw Will, and 
heard herself from him that Jem had not been with him that 
Thursday night, it would in a measure break the force of the 
blow which was impending. 

“ Let me lock up house, grandfather, for a couple of days, 
and go and stay with Alice. It’s but little one like me can 
do, I know ” (she added softly) ; “ but, by the blessing o’ 
God, I’ll do it and welcome ; and here comes one kindly use 
o’ money, I can hire them as will do for her what I cannot. 
Mrs. Davenport is a willing body, and one who knows sorrow 
and sickness, and I can pay her for her time, and keep her 
there pretty near altogether. So let that be settled. And 
you take Mrs. Wilson, dear grandad, and let Mary go find 
Will, and you can all meet together at after, and I’m sure I 
wish you luck.” 

Job consented with only a few dissenting grunts ; but on 
the whole with a very good grace for an old man who had 
been so positive only a few minutes before. 

Mary was thankful for Margaret’s interference. She did 
not speak, but threw her arms round Margaret’s neck, and 
put up her rosy-red mouth to be kissed ; and even Job was 
attracted by the pretty, child-like gesture ; and when she 

326 


The Journey to Liverpool 

drew near him, afterwards, like a little creature sidling up to 
some person whom it feels to have offended, he bent down 
and blessed her, as if she had been a child of his own. 

To Mary the old man's blessing came like words of power. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

THE JOUBNEY TO LIVERPOOL 

** Like a bark upon the sea, 

Life is floating over death ; 

Above, below, encircling thee. 

Danger lurks in every breath. 

Parted art thou from the grave 
Only by a plank most frail ; 

Tossed upon the restless wave. 

Sport of every fickle gale. 

Let the skies be e’er so clear. 

And so calm and still the sea, 

Shipwreck yet has he to fear 
Who life’s voyager will be.” 

Ruckert. 

The early trains for Liverpool, on Monday morning, were 
crowded by attorneys, attorneys’ clerks, plaintiffs, defendants, 
and witnesses, all going to the Assizes. They were a motley 
assembly, each with some cause for anxiety stirring at his 
heart ; though, after all, that is saying little or nothing, for 
we are all of us in the same predicament through life ; each 
with a fear and a hope from childhood to death. Among the 
passengers there was Mary Barton, dressed in the blue gown 
and obnoxious plaid shawl. 

Common as railroads are now in all places as a means of 
transit, and especially in Manchester, Mary had never been 

327 


Mary Barton 

on one before; and she felt bewildered by the hurry, the 
noise of people, and bells, and horns ; the whiz and the 
scream of the arriving trains. 

The very journey itself seemed to her a matter of wonder. 
She had a back seat, and looked towards the factory-chimneys, 
and the cloud of smoke which hovers over Manchester, with 
a feeling akin to the “ Heimweh.” She was losing sight of 
the familiar objects of her childhood for the first time ; and 
unpleasant as those objects are to most, she yearned after 
them with some of the same sentiment which gives pathos to 
the thoughts of the emigrant. 

The cloud-shadows which give beauty to Chat-Moss, the 
picturesque old houses of Newton, what were they to Mary, 
whose heart was full of many things ? Yet she seemed to 
look at them earnestly as they glided past ; but she neither 
saw nor heard. 

She neither saw nor heard till some well-known names 
fell upon her ear. 

Two lawyers’ clerks were discussing the cases to come 
on that Assizes; of course, “the murder case,” as it had 
come to be termed, held a conspicuous place in their con- 
versation. 

They had no doubt of the result. 

“ Juries are always very unwilling to convict on circum- 
stantial evidence, it is true,” said one, “ but here there can 
hardly be any doubt.” 

“ If it had not been so clear a case,” rephed the other, “ I 
should have said they were injudicious in hurrying on the 
trial so much. Still, more evidence might have been collected.” 

“They tell me,” said the first speaker— “ the people in 
Gardener’s office, I mean— that it was really feared the old 
gentleman would have gone out of his mind, if the trial had 
been delayed. He was with Mr. Gardener as many as seven 
times on Saturday, and called him up at night to suggest 
that some letter should be written, or something done to 
secure the verdict.” 

“Poor old man,” answered his companion, “who can 
328 


The Journey to Liverpool 

wonder? — an only son, — such a death, — the disagreeable 
circumstances attending it ; I had not time to read the 
Guardian on Saturday, but I understand it was some dispute 
about a factory girl I ” 

“ Yes, some such person. Of course she’ll be examined, 
and Williams will do it in style. I shall slip out from our 
court to hear him, if I can hit the nick of time.” 

“ And if you can get a place, you mean, for depend upon 
it the court will be crowded.” 

“ Ay, ay, the ladies (sweet souls) will come in shoals to 
hear a trial for murder, and see the murderer, and watch the 
judge put on his black cap.” 

“ And then go home and groan over the Spanish ladies 
who take delight in bull-fights — ‘ such unfeminine creatures ! ’ ” 

Then they went on to other subjects. 

It was but another drop to Mary’s cup ; but she was 
nearly in that state which Crabbe describes — 

For when so full the cup of sorrows flows. 

Add but a drop, it instantly o’erflows.” 

And now they were in the tunnel ! — and now they were 
in Liverpool ; and she must rouse herself from the torpor of 
mind and body which was creeping over her ; the result of 
much anxiety and fatigue, and several sleepless nights. 

She asked a policeman the way to Milk-House Yard, and 
following his directions with the savoir faire of a town-bred 
girl, she reached a little court leading out of a busy, thronged 
street, not far from the Docks. 

When she entered the quiet httle yard, she stopped to 
regain her breath, and to gather strength, for her limbs 
trembled, and her heart beat violently. 

All the unfavourable contingencies she had, until now, 
forbidden herself to dwell upon, came forward to her mind — 
the possibility, the bare possibility, of Jem being an accom- 
plice in the murder — the still greater possibility that he had 
not fulfilled his intention of going part of the way with Will, 
but had been led off by some little accidental occurrence 

329 


Mary Barton 

from his original intention ; and that he had spent the even- 
ing with those whom it was now too late to bring forward as 
witnesses. 

But sooner or later she must know the truth ; so, taking 
courage, she knocked at the door of a house. 

“ Is this Mrs. Jones’s ? ” she inquired. 

“ Next door but one,” was the curt answer. 

And even this exti^i minute was a reprieve. 

Mrs. Jones was busy washing, and would have spoken 
angrily to the person who knocked so gently at the door, if 
anger had been in her nature ; but she was a soft, helpless 
kind of woman, and only sighed over the many interruptions 
she had had to her business that unlucky Monday morning. 

But the feeling which would have been anger in a more 
impatient temper, took the form of prejudice against the 
disturber, whoever he or she might be. 

Mary’s fluttered and excited appearance strengthened this 
prejudice in Mrs. Jones’s mind, as she stood, stripping the 
soap-suds off her arms, while she eyed her visitor, and waited 
to be told what her business was. 

But no words would come. Mary’s voice seemed choked 
up in her throat. 

“ Pray what do you want, young woman ? ” coldly asked 
Mrs. Jones at last. 

“ I want— oh ! is Will Wilson here ? ” 

“ No, he is not,” replied Mrs. Jones, inchning to shut the 
door in her face. 

“Is he not come back from the Isle of Man ? ” asked 
Mary, sickening. 

“ He never went ; he stayed in Manchester too long ; as 
perhaps you know, already.” 

And again the door seemed closing. 

But Mary bent forwards with suppliant action (as some 
young tree bends, when blown by the rough, autumnal wind), 
and gasped out — 

“ Tell me — tell — me — where is he ? ” 

Mrs. Jones suspected some love affair, and, perhaps, one 

330 


In the Liverpool Docks 

of not the most creditable kind ; but the distress of the pale 
young creature before her was so obvious and so pitiable, 
that, were she ever so sinful, Mrs. Jones could no longer 
uphold her short, Reserved manner. 

“ He’s gone this very morning, my poor girl. Step in, 
and I’ll tell you about it.” 

“ Gone ! ” cried Mary. “ How gone ? I must see him, — 
it’s a matter of hfe and death : he can save the innocent from 
being hanged, — he cannot be gone, — how gone ? ” 

“ Sailed, my dear ! sailed in the John Cropper this very 
blessed morning.” 

“ Sailed ! ” 


CHAPTER XXVII 

IN THE LIVERPOOL DOCKS 
“ Yon is our quay 1 

Hark to the clamour in that miry road, 

Bounded and narrowed by yon vessel’s load ; 

The lumbering wealth she empties round the place, 

Package and parcel; hogshead, chest, and case ; 

While the loud seaman and the angry hind, 

Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.” 

Crabbe. 

Mary staggered into the house. Mrs. Jones placed her 
tenderly in a chair, and there stood bewildered by her side. 

“O father! father!” muttered she, “what have you 
done ! — What must I do ? must the innocent die ? — or he — 
whom I fear — I fear — oh ! what am I saying ? ” said she, 
looking round affrighted, and, seemingly reassured by Mrs. 
Jones’s countenance, “ I am so helpless, so weak, — but a 
poor girl after all. How can I tell what is right ? Father ! 
you have always been so kind to me, — and you to be — never 
mind — never mind, all will come right in the grave.” 

331 


Mary Barton 

“ Save us, and bless us ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Jones, “ if I 
don’t think she’s gone out of her wits ! ” 

“ No, I am not ! ” said Mary, catching at the words, and 
with a strong effort controlling the mind she felt to be 
wandering, while the red blood flushed to scarlet the here- 
tofore white cheek, — “I’m not out of my senses; there is 
so much to be done — so much — and no one but me to do it, 
you know, — though I can’t rightly tell what it is,” looking 
up with bewilderment into Mrs. Jones’s face. “ I must not 
go mad whatever comes — at least not yet. No ! ” (bracing 
herself up) “ something may yet be done, and I must do it. 
Sailed ! did you say ? The John Cropper ? Sailed ? ” 

“ Ay ! she went out of dock last night, to be ready for 
the morning’s tide.” 

“ I thought she was not to sail till to-morrow,” murmured 
Mary. 

“ So did Will (he’s lodged here long, so we all call him 
‘ Will ’),” replied Mrs. Jones. “ The mate had told him so, 
I believe, and he never knew different till he got to Liverpool 
on Friday morning; but as soon as he heard, he gave up 
going to the Isle o’ Man, and just ran over to Khyl with the 
mate, one John Harris, as has friends a bit beyond Abergele; 
you may have heard him speak on him, for they are great 
chums, though I’ve my own opinion of Harris.” 

“And he’s sailed?” repeated Mary, trying by repetition 
to realise the fact to herself. 

“Ay, he went on board last night to be ready for the 
morning’s tide, as I said afore, and my boy went to see 
the ship go down the river, and came back all agog with the 
sight. Here, Charley, Charley ! ” She called out loudly 
for her son; but Charley was one of those boys who are 
never “far to seek,” as the Lancashire people say, when 
anything is going on — a mysterious conversation, an unusual 
event, a fire, or a riot, anything in short ; such boys are the 
little omnipresent people of this world. 

Charley had, in fact, been spectator and auditor all this 
time; though for a httle while he had been engaged in 

332 


In the Liverpool Docks 

“ dollying ” and a few other mischievous feats in the washing 
line, which had prevented his attention from being fully 
given to his mother’s conversation with the strange girl who 
had entered. 

“ O Charley ! there you are ! Did you not see the John 
Cropper sail down the river this morning ? Tell the young 
woman about it, for I think she hardly credits me.” 

“ I saw her tugged down the river by a steamboat, which 
comes to same thing,” replied he. 

“ Oh ! if I had but come last night ! ” moaned Mary. 
“ But I never thought of it. I never thought but what he 
knew right when he said he would be back from the Isle 
of Man on Monday morning, and not afore — and now some 
one must die for my negligence ! ” 

“ Die ! ” exclaimed the lad. “ How ? ” 

“ Oh ! Will would have proved an alibi, — but he’s gone, 
— and what am I to do ? ” 

“ Don’t give it up yet,” cried the energetic boy, interested 
at once in the case ; “ let’s have a try for him. We are but 
where we were, if we fail.” 

Mary roused herself. The sympathetic “ we ” gave her 
heart and hope. “ But what can be done ? You say he’s 
sailed ; what can be done ? ” But she spoke louder, and in 
a more hfe-like tone. 

“ No ! I did not say he’d sailed ; mother said that, and 
women know nought about such matters. You see ” (proud 
of his office of instructor, and insensibly influenced, as all 
about her were, by Mary’s sweet, earnest, lovely countenance), 
“there’s sand-banks at the mouth of the river, and ships 
can’t get over them but at high-water; especially ships of 
heavy burden, like the John Cropper. Now she was tugged 
down the river at low water, or pretty near, and will have 
to he some time before the water will be high enough to 
float her over the banks. So hold up your head, — you’ve a 
chance yet, though, maybe, but a poor one.” 

“ But what must I do ? ” asked Mary, to whom all this 
explanation had been a vague mystery. 

333 


Mary Barton 

“ Do ! ” said the boy impatiently, “ why, have not I told 
you ? Only women (begging your pardon) are so stupid at 
understanding about anything belonging to the sea; — you 
must get a boat, and make all haste, and sail after him, — 
after the John Cropper. You may overtake her, or you may 
not. It’s just a chance ; but she’s heavy laden, and that’s 
in your favour. She’ll draw many feet of water.” 

Mary had humbly and eagerly (oh, how eagerly !) listened 
to this young Sir Oracle’s speech ; but try as she would, she 
could only understand that she must make haste, and sail — 
somewhere. 

“ I beg your pardon ” (and her little acknowledgment of 
inferiority in this speech pleased the lad, and made him her 
still more zealous friend). “ I beg your pardon,” said she, “ but 
I don’t know where to get a boat. Are there boat-stands ? ” 

The lad laughed outright. 

“ You’re not long in Liverpool, I guess. Boat-stands ! 
No; go down to the pier, — any pier will do, and hire a 
boat, — you’ll be at no loss when once you are there. Only 
make haste.” 

“ Oh, you need not tell me that, if I but knew how,” said 
Mary, trembling with eagerness. “ But you say right, — I 
never was here before, and I don’t know my way to the place 
you speak on ; only tell me, and I’ll not lose a minute.” 

“ Mother ! ” said the wilful lad, “ I’m going to show her 
the way to the pier; I’ll be back in an hour, — or so,” he 
added in a lower tone. 

And before the gentle Mrs. Jones could collect her 
scattered wits sufi&ciently to understand half of the hastily- 
formed plan, her son was scudding down the street, closely 
followed by Mary’s half-running steps. 

Presently he slackened his pace sufficiently to enable him 
to enter into conversation with Mary, for, once escaped from 
,the reach of his mother’s recalling voice, he thought he 
might venture to indulge his curiosity. 

“ Ahem ! — What’s your name ? It’s so awkward to be 
calling you young woman.” 


334 


In the Liverpool Doeks 

“ My name is Mary, — Mary Barton,” answered she, 
anxious to propitiate one who seemed so willing to exert 
himself in her behalf, or else she grudged every word which 
caused the slightest relaxation in her speed, although her 
chest seemed tightened, and her head throbbing, from the 
rate at which they were walking. 

“ And you want Will Wilson to prove an alibi — is that 
it?” 

“ Yes — oh, yes — can we not cross now ? ” 

“No, wait a minute ; it’s the teagle hoisting above your 
head I'm afraid of ; and who is it that’s to be tried ? ” 

“ Jem ; oh, lad ! can’t we get past ? ” 

They rushed under the great bales quivering in the air 
above their heads and pressed onward for a few minutes, 
till Master Charley again saw fit to walk a little slower, and 
ask a few more questions. 

“ Mary, is Jem your brother, or your sweetheart, that 
you’re so set upon saving him ? ” 

“ No — no,” replied she, but with something of hesitation, 
that made the shrewd boy yet more anxious to clear up the 
mystery. 

“ Perhaps he’s your cousin, then ? Many a girl has a 
cousin who has not a sweetheart.” 

“No, he’s neither kith nor kin to me. What’s the 
matter? What are you stopping for?” said she, with 
nervous terror, as Charley turned back a few steps, and 
peered up a side street. 

“ Oh, nothing to flurry you so, Mary. I heard you say 
to mother you had never been in Liverpool before, and if 
you’ll only look up this street you may see the back windows 
of our Exchange. Such a building as yon is ! with ’natomy 
hiding under a blanket, and Lord Admiral Nelson, and a 
few more people in the middle of the court ! No I come 
here,” as Mary, in her eagerness, was looking at any window 
that caught her eye first, to satisfy the boy. “ Here then, 
now you can see it. You can say, now, you’ve seen Liver- 
pool Exchange.” 


335 


Mary Barton 

“ Yes, to be sure — it’s a beautiful window, I’m sure. 
But are we near the boats ? I’ll stop as I come back, you 
know ; only I think we’d better get on now.” 

“ Oh ! if the wind’s in your favour you’ll be down the 
river in no time, and catch Will, I’ll be bound; and if it’s 
not, why, you know the minute it took you to look at the 
Exchange will be neither here nor there.” 

Another rush onwards, till one of the long crossings near 
the Docks caused a stoppage, and gave Mary time for 
breathing, and Charley leisure to ask another question. 

“ You’ve never said where you come from ? ” 

“ Manchester,” replied she. 

“ Eh, then ! you’re a power of things to see. Liverpool 
beats Manchester hollow, they say. A nasty, smoky hole, 
bean’t it ? Are you bound to live there ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! it’s my home.” 

“ Well, I don’t think I could abide a home in the middle 
of the smoke. Look there ! now you see the river. That’s 
something now you’d give a deal for in Manchester. Look ! ” 

And Mary did look, and saw down an opening made in 
the forest of masts belonging to the vessels in dock, the 
glorious river, along which white-sailed ships were gliding 
with the ensigns of all nations, not “ braving the battle,” but 
telling of the distant lands, spicy or frozen, that sent to that 
mighty mart for their comforts or their luxuries; she saw 
small boats passing to and fro on that glittering highway, 
but she also saw such puffs and clouds of smoke from the 
countless steamers, that she wondered at Charley’s intoler- 
ance of the smoke of Manchester. Across the swing-bridge, 
along the pier, — and they stood breathless by a magnificent 
dock, where hundreds of ships lay motionless during the 
process of loading and unloading. The cries of the sailors, 
the variety of languages used by the passers-by, and the 
entire novelty of the sight compared with anything which 
Mary had ever seen, made her feel most helpless and forlorn ; 
and she clung to her young guide as to one who alone by 
his superior knowledge could interpret between her and the 

336 


In the Liverpool Docks 

new race of men by whom she was surrounded, — for a new 
race sailors might reasonably be considered, to a girl who 
had hitherto seen none but inland dwellers, and those for 
the greater part factory people. 

In that new world of sight and sound, she still bore one 
prevailing thought, and though her eye glanced over the 
ships and the wide-spreading river, her mind was full of the 
thought of reaching Will. 

“ Why are we here ? ” asked she of Charley. “ There are 
no little boats about, and I thought I was to go in a little 
boat; those ships are never meant for short distances, are 
they?” 

“ To be sure not,” replied he, rather contemptuously. 
“ But the John Cropper lay in this dock, and I know many of 
the sailors; and if I could see one I knew, I’d ask him to 
run up the mast, and see if he could catch a sight of her in 
the ofi&ng. If she’s weighed her anchor, no use for your 
going, you know.” 

Mary assented quietly to this speech, as if she were as 
careless as Charley seemed now to be about her overtaking 
Will ; but in truth her heart was sinking within her, and she 
no longer felt the energy which had hitherto upheld her. 
Her bodily strength was giving way, and she stood cold and 
shivering, although the noonday sun beat down with con- 
siderable power on the shadeless spot where she was standing. 

“ Here’s Tom Bourne ! ” said Charley ; and altering his 
manner from the patronising key in which he had spoken to 
Mary, he addressed a weather-beaten old sailor who came 
rolling along the pathway where they stood, his hands in his 
pockets, and his quid in his mouth, with very much the air 
of one who had nothing to do but look about him, and spit 
right and left ; addressing this old tar, Charley made known 
to him his wish in slang, which to Mary was almost in- 
audible, and quite unintelligible, and which I am too much 
of a land-lubber to repeat correctly. 

Mary watched looks and actions with a renovated keen- 
ness of perception. 


337 


z 


Mary Barton 

She saw the old man listen attentively to Charley ; she 
saw him eye her over from head to foot, and wind up his 
inspection with a little nod of approbation (for her very 
shabbiness and poverty of dress were creditable signs to the 
experienced old sailor), and then she watched him leisurely 
swing himself on to a ship in the basin, and, borrowing a 
glass,, run up the mast with the speed of a monkey. 

“ He’ll fall ! ” said she, in affright, clutching at Charley’s 
arm, and judging the sailor, from his storm -marked face and 
unsteady walk on land, to be much older than he really was. 

“ Not he 1 ” said Charley. “ He’s at the mast-head now. 
See ! he’s looking through his glass, and using his arms as 
steady as if he were on dry land. Why, I’ve been up the 
mast, many and many a time ; only don’t tell mother. She 
thinks I’m to be a shoemaker ; but I’ve made up my mind to 
be a sailor; only there’s no good arguing with a woman. 
You’ll not tell her, Mary ? ” 

“ Oh, see ! ” exclaimed she (his secret was very safe with 
her, for, in fact, she had not heard it) ; see ! he’s coming 
down ; he’s down. Speak to him, Charley.” 

But, unable to wait another instant, she called out 
herself — 

” Can you see the John Cropper ? Is she there yet ? ” 

“ Ay, ay,” he answered, and coming quickly up to them, 
he hurried them away to seek for a boat, saying the bar was 
already covered, and in an hour the ship would hoist her 
sails, and be off. “ You’ve the wind right against you, and 
must use oars. No time to lose.” 

They ran to some steps leading down to the water. They 
beckoned to some watermen, who, suspecting the real state 
of the case, appeared in no hurry for a fare, but leisurely 
brought their boat alongside the stairs, as if it were a matter 
of indifference to them whether they were engaged or not, 
while they conversed together in few words, and in an 
undertone, respecting the charge they should make. 

“ Oh, pray make haste,” called Mary. “ I want you 
to take me to the John Cropper, Where is she, Charley? 

338 


In the Liverpool Docks 

Tell them — I don’t rightly know the words, — only make 
haste ! ” 

“ In the ofi&ng she is, sure enough, miss,” answered one 
of the men, shoving Charley on one side, regarding him as 
too young to be a principal in the bargain. 

“ I don’t think we can go, Dick,” said he, with a wink to 
his companion ; “ there’s the gentleman over at New Brighton 
as wants us.” 

“ But, mayhap, the young woman will pay us handsome for 
giving her a last look at her sweetheart,” interposed the other. 

“ Oh, how much do you want ? Only make haste— I’ve 
enough to pay you, but every moment is precious,” said 
Mary. 

“ Ay, that it is. Less than an hour won’t take us to the 
mouth of the river, and she’ll be off by two o’clock ! ” 

Poor Mary’s ideas of “ plenty of money,” however, were 
different to those entertained by the boatmen. Only fourteen 
or fifteen shillings remained out of the sovereign Margaret 
had lent her, and the boatmen, imagining “ plenty ” to mean 
no less than several pounds, insisted upon receiving a 
sovereign (an exorbitant fare by-the-bye, although reduced 
from their first demand of thirty shillings). 

While Charley, with a boy’s impatience of delay, and 
disregard to money, kept urging — 

“ Give it ’em, Mary ; they’ll none of them take you for 
less. It’s your only chance. There’s St. Nicholas ringing 
one ! ” 

“ I’ve only got fourteen and ninepence,” cried she in 
despair, after counting over her money ; “ but I’ll give you 
my shawl, and you can sell it for four or five shillings, — oh ! 
won’t that much do ? ” asked she, in such a tone of voice, 
that they must indeed have had hard hearts who could 
refuse such agonised entreaty. 

They took her on board. 

And in less than five minutes she was rocking and 
tossing in a boat for the first time in her life, alone with two 
rough, hard-looking men. 


339 


Mary Barton 


CHAPTEE XXVIII 

“ JOHN CROPPEE,” AHOY ! 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 

And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast ! 

And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While, like the eagle free. 

Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
Old England on the lee.” 

Allan Cunningham. 

Mary had not understood that Charley was not coming with 
her. In fact, she had not thought about it, till she perceived 
his absence, as they pushed off from the landing-place, and 
remembered that she had never thanked him for all his kind 
interest in her behalf ; and now his absence made her feel 
most lonely — even his, the little mushroom friend of an 
hour’s growth. 

The boat threaded her way through the maze of larger 
vessels which surrounded the shore, bumping against one, 
kept off by the oars from going right against another, over- 
shadowed by a third, until at length they were fairly out on 
the broad river, away from either shore; the sights and 
sounds of land being heard in the distance. 

And then came a short pause. 

Both wind and tide were against the two men, and 
labour as they would they made but little way. Once Mary 
in her impatience had risen up to obtain a better view of the 
progress they had made ; but the men had roughly told her 
to sit down immediately, and she had dropped on her seat 
like a chidden child, although the impatience was still at her 
heart. * 

But now she grew sure they were turning off from the 
straight course which they had hitherto kept on the Cheshire 

340 


“John Cropper,” Ahoy ! 

side of the river, whither they had gone to avoid the force of 
the current ; and after a short time she could not help naming 
her conviction, as a kind of nightmare dread and belief came 
over her, that everything animate and inanimate was in 
league against her one sole aim and object of overtaking 
Will. 

They answered gruffly. They saw a boatman whom they 
knew, and were desirous of obtaining his services as a steers- 
man, so that both might row with greater effect. They knew 
what they were about. So she sat silent with clenched 
hands while the parley went on, the explanation was given, 
the favour asked and granted. But she was sickening all 
the time with nervous fear. 

They had been rowing a long, long time — half a day it 
seemed, at least — yet Liverpool appeared still close at hand, 
and Mary began almost to wonder that the men were not as 
much disheartened as she was, when the wind, which had 
been hitherto against them, dropped, and thin clouds began 
to gather over the sky, shutting out the sun, and casting a 
chilly gloom over everything. 

There was not a breath of air, and yet it was colder than 
when the soft violence of the westerly wind had teen felt. 

The men renewed their efforts. The boat gave a bound 
forwards at every pull of the oars. The water was glassy 
and motionless, reflecting tint by tint of the Indian -ink sky 
above. Mary shivered, and her heart sank within her. 
Still, now they evidently were making progress. Then the 
steersman pointed to a ripphng line on the river only a little 
way off, and the men disturbed Mary, who was watching the 
ships that lay in what appeared to her the open sea, to get 
at their sails. 

She gave a little start, and rose. Her patience, her 
grief, and perhaps her silence, had begun to win upon the 
^en. 

“ Yon second to the norrard is the John Cropper. Wind’s 
right now, and sails will soon carry us alongside of her.” 

He had forgotten (or perhaps he did not hke to remind 

341 


Mary Barton 

Mary), that the same wind which now bore their little craft 
along with easy, rapid motion, would also be favourable to 
the John Crcypper. 

But as they looked with straining eyes, as if to measure 
the decreasing distance that separated them from her, they 
saw her sails unfurled and flap in the breeze, till, catching 
the right point, they bellied forth into white roundness, and 
the ship began to plunge and heave, as if she were a living 
creature, impatient to be off. 

“ They’re heaving anchor ! ” said one of the boatmen to 
the other, as the faint musical cry of the sailors came floating 
over the waters that still separated them. 

Full of the spirit of the chase, though as yet ignorant of 
Mary’s motives, the men sprung to hoist another sail. It 
was fully as much as the boat could bear, in the keen, gusty 
east wind which was now blowing, and she bent, and 
laboured, and ploughed, and creaked upbraidingly as if 
tasked beyond her strength; but she sped along with a 
gallant swiftness. 

They drew nearer, and they heard the distant “ ahoy ” 
more clearly. It ceased. The anchor was up, and the ship 
was away. 

Mary stood up, steadying herself by the mast, and 
stretched out her arms, imploring the flying vessel to stay 
its course, by that mute action, while the tears streamed 
down her cheeks. The men caught up their oars, and 
hoisted them in the air, and shouted to arrest attention. 

They were seen by the men aboard the larger craft ; but 
they were too busy with all the confusion prevalent in an 
outward-bound vessel to pay much attention. There were 
coils of ropes and seamen’s chests to be stumbled over at 
every turn ; there were animals, not properly secured, roam- 
ing bewildered about the deck, adding their pitiful lowings 
and bleatings to the aggregate of noises. There were carcases 
not cut up, looking like corpses of sheep and pigs rather 
than like mutton and pork ; there were sailors running here 
and there and everywhere, having had no time to fall into 

342 


“ John Cropper,” Ahoy ! 

method, and with their minds divided between thoughts of 
the land and the people they had left, and the present duties 
on board ship ; while the captain strove hard to procure 
some kind of order by hasty commands given, in a loud, 
impatient voice, to right and left, starboard and larboard, 
cabin and steerage. 

As he paced the deck with a chafed step, vexed at one 
or two little mistakes on the part of the mate, and suffering 
himself from the pain of separation from wife and children, 
but showing his suffering only by his outward irritation, he 
heard a hail from the shabby little river boat that was 
striving to overtake his winged ship. For the men fearing 
that, as the ship was now fairly over the bar, they should 
only increase the distance between them, and being now 
within shouting range, had asked of Mary her more particular 
desire. 

Her throat was dry, all musical sound had gone out of 
her voice ; but in a loud, harsh whisper she told the men 
her errand of life and death, and they hailed the ship. 

“ We’re come for one William Wilson, who is wanted to 
prove an alibi in Liverpool Assize Courts to-morrow. James 
Wilson is to be tried for a murder done on Thursday night 
when he was with William Wilson. Anything more, missis ? ” 
asked the boatmen of Mary, in a lower voice, and taking his 
hands down from his mouth. 

“ Say I’m Mary Barton. Oh, the ship is going on ! Oh, 
for the love of Heaven, ask them to stop.” 

The boatman was angry at the little regard paid to his 
summons, and called out again ; repeating the message with 
the name of the young woman who sent it, and interlarding 
it with sailors’ oaths. 

The ship flew along — away — the boat struggled after. 

They could see the captain take his speaking-trumpet. 
And oh ! and alas ! they heard his words. 

He swore a dreadful oath ; he called Mary a disgraceful 
name ; and he said he would not stop his ship for any one, 
nor could he part with a single hand, whoever swung for it. 

343 


Mary Barton 

The words came in unpitying clearness with their trumpet- 
sound. Mary sat down looking like one who prays in the 
death agony. For her eyes were turned up to that heaven, 
where mercy dwelleth, while her blue lips quivered, though 
no sound came. Then she bowed her head and hid it in her 
hands. 

“ Hark ! yon sailor hails us.” 

She looked up. And her heart stopped its beating to 
listen. 

William Wilson stood as near the stern of the vessel as 
he could get ; and unable to obtain the trumpet from the 
angry captain, made a tube of his own hands. 

“ So help me God, Mary Barton, I’ll come back in the 
pilot-boat time enough to save the life of the innocent.” 

“What does he say?” asked Mary wildly, as the voice 
died away in the increasing distance, while the boatmen 
cheered in their kindled sympathy with their passenger. 

“ What does he say ? ” repeated she. “ Tell me. I 
could not hear.” 

She had heard with her ears, but her brain refused to 
recognise the sense. 

They repeated his speech, all three speaking at once, 
with many comments ; while Mary looked at them and then 
at the vessel far away. 

“ I don’t rightly know about it,” said she sorrowfully. 
“ What is the pilot-boat ? ” 

They told her, and she gathered the meaning out of the 
sailors’ slang which enveloped it. There was a hope still, 
although so slight and faint. 

“ How far does the pilot go with the ship ? ” 

To different distances they said. Some pilots would go 
as far as Holyhead for the chance of the homeward-bound 
vessels ; others only took the ships over the Banks. Some 
captains were more cautious than others, and the pilots had 
different ways. The wind was against the homeward-bound 
vessels, so perhaps the pilot aboard the John Cropjper would 
not care to go far out. 


344 


“ John Cropper,” Ahoy ! 

“ How soon would he come back ? ” 

There were three boatmen, and three opinions, varying 
from twelve hours to two days. Nay, the man who gave his 
vote for the longest time, on having his judgment disputed, 
grew stubborn, and doubled the time, and thought it might 
be the end of the week before the pilot-boat came home. 

They began disputing and urging reasons ; and Mary tried 
to understand them ; but, independently of their nautical 
language, a veil seemed drawn over her mind, and she had 
no clear perception of anything that passed. Her very 
words seemed not her own, and beyond her power of control, 
for she found herself speaking quite differently to what she 
meant. 

One by one her hopes had fallen away, and left her 
desolate ; and, though a chance yet remained, she could no 
longer hope. She felt certain it, too, would fade and vanish. 
She sank into a kind of stupor. All outward objects 
harmonised with her despair — the gloomy leaden sky — the 
deep, dark waters below, of a still heavier shade of colour — 
the cold, flat, yellow shore in the distance, which no ray 
lightened up — the nipping, cutting wind. 

She shivered with her depression of mind and body. 

The sails were taken down, of course, on the return to 
Liverpool, and the progress they made, rowing and tacking, 
was very slow. The men talked together, disputing about 
the pilots at first, and then about matters of local importance, 
in which Mary would have taken no interest at any time, 
and she gradually became drowsy ; irrepressibly so, indeed, 
for in spite of her jerking efforts to keep awake, she sank 
away to the bottom of the boat, and there lay crouched on 
a rough heap of sails, ropes, and tackle of various kinds. 

The measured beat of the waters against the sides of the 
boat, and the musical boom of the more distant waves, were 
more lulling than silence, and she slept sound. 

Once she opened her eyes heavily, and dimly saw the old 
grey, rough boatman (who had stood out the most obstinately 
for the full fare) covering her with his thick pea-jacket. He 

345 


Mary Barton 

had taken it off on purpose, and was doing it tenderly in 
his way, but before she could rouse herself up to thank him 
she had dropped off to sleep again. 

At last, in the dusk of evening, they arrived at the landing- . 
place from which they had started some hours before. The 
men spoke to Mary, but though she mechanically replied, 
she did not stir ; so, at length, they were obliged to shake 
her. She stood up, shivering and puzzled as to her 
whereabouts. 

“Now tell me where you are bound to, missus,” said the 
grey old man, “ and maybe I can put you in the way.” 

She slowly comprehended what he said, and went through 
the process of recollection ; but very dimly, and with much 
labour. She put her hand into her pocket and pulled out 
her purse, and shook its contents into the man’s hand ; and 
then began meekly to unpin her shawl, although they had 
turned away without asking for it. 

“ No, no! ” said the old man, who lingered on the step 
before springing into the boat, and to whom she mutely 
offered the shawl. 

“ Keep it I we donnot want it. It were only for to try 
you ; — some folks say they’ve no more blunt, when all the 
while they’ve getten a mint.” 

“ Thank you,” said she, in a dull, low tone. 

“ Where are you bound to ? I axed that question afore,” 
said the gruff old fellow. 

“ I don’t know. I’m a stranger,” replied she quietly, with 
a strange absence of anxiety under the circumstances. 

“ But you mun find out, then,” said he sharply : “ pier- 
head’s no place for a young woman to be standing on, 
gapeseying.” 

“ I’ve a card somewhere as will tell me,” she answered ; 
and the man, partly relieved, jumped into the boat, which 
was now pushing off to make way for the arrivals from some 
steamer. 

Mary felt in her pocket for the card, on which was 
written the name of the street where she was to have met 

346 


“ John Cropper,” Ahoy ! 

Mr. Bridgnorth at two o’clock ; where Job and Mrs. Wilson 
were to have been, and where she was to have learnt from 
the former the particulars of some respectable lodging. It 
was not to be found. 

She tried to brighten her perceptions, and felt again, and 
took out the little articles her pocket contained, her empty- 
purse, her pocket-handkerchief, and such little things, but it" 
was not there. 

In fact she had dropped it when, so eager to embark, she 
had pulled out her purse to reckon up her money. 

She did not know this, of course. She only knew it 
was gone. 

It added but little to the despair that was creeping over 
her. But she tried a little more to help herself, though every 
minute her mind became more cloudy. She strove to re- 
member where Will had lodged, but she could not ; name, 
street, everything had passed away, and it did not signify; 
better she were lost than found. 

She sat down quietly on the top step of the landing, and 
gazed down into the dark, dank water below. Once or twice 
a spectral thought loomed among the shadows of her brain ; 
a wonder whether beneath that cold dismal surface there 
would not be rest from the troubles of earth. But she could 
not hold an idea before her for two consecutive moments ; 
and she forgot what she thought about before she could 
act upon it. 

So she continued sitting motionless, without looking up, 
or regarding in any way the insults to which she was 
subjected. 

Through the darkening light the old boatman had watched 
her : interested in her in spite of himself, and his scoldings 
of himself. 

When the landing-place was once more comparatively 
clear, he made his way towards it, across boats, and along 
planks, swearing at himself while he did so for an old 
fool. 

He shook Mary’s shoulder violently. 

347 


Mary Barton 

“ D you, I ask you again where you’re bound to ? 

Don’t sit there, stupid. Where are you going to ? ” 

I don’t know,” sighed Mary. 

“ Come, come ; avast with that story. You said a bit 
ago you’d a card, which was to tell you where to go.” 

“ I had, but I’ve lost it. Never mind.” 

She looked again down upon the black mirror below. 

He stood by her, striving to put down his better self ; but 
he could not. He shook her again. She looked up, as if 
she had forgotten him. 

“ What do you want ? ” asked she wearily. 

“Come with me and be d — d to you!” replied he, 
clutching her arm to pull her up. 

She arose and followed him, with the unquestioning 
docility of a little child. 


CHAPTEE XXIX 

A TRUE BILL AGAINST JEM 

“ There are who, living by the legal pen. 

Are held in honour — honourable men.” 

Cbabbe. 

At five minutes before two. Job Legh stood upon the door- 
step of the house where Mr. Bridgnorth lodged at Assize 
time. He had left Mrs. Wilson at the dwelling of a friend 
of his, who had offered him a room for the old woman and 
Mary : a room which had frequently been his, on his occa- 
sional visits to Liverpool, but which he was thankful now 
to have obtained for them, as his own sleeping place was 
a matter of indifference to him, and the town appeared 
crowded and disorderly on the eve of the Assizes. 

He was shown in to Mr. Bridgnorth, who was writing. 
348 


A True Bill against Jem 

Mary and Will Wilson had not yet arrived, being, as you 
know, far away on the broad sea ; but of this Job of course 
knew nothing, and be did not as yet feel much anxiety about 
their non-appearance ; be was more curious to know the 
result of Mr. Bridgnorth’s interview that morning with Jem. 

“ Why, yes,” said Mr. Bridgnorth, putting down his pen, 
“ I have seen him, but to little purpose, I’m afraid. He’s 
very impracticable — very. I told him, of course, that he 
must be perfectly open with me, or else I could not be 
prepared for the weak points. I named your name with the 
view of unlocking his confidence, but ” 

“ What did he say ? ” asked Job breathlessly. 

“ Why, very little. He barely answered me. Indeed, he 
refused to answer some questions — positively refused. I 
don’t know what I can do for him.” 

“ Then you think him guilty, sir,” said Job despondingly. 

“ No, I don’t,” replied Mr. Bridgnorth, quickly and de- 
cisively. “ Much less than I did before I saw him. The 
impression (mind, ’tis only impression; I rely upon your 
caution, not to take it for fact) — the impression,” with an 
emphasis on the word, “ he gave me is, that he knows 
something about the affair, but what, he will not say; and 
so, the chances are, if he persists in his obstinacy, he’ll be 
hung. That’s all.” 

He began to write again, for he had no time to lose. 

“ But he must not be hung,” said Job with vehemence. 

Mr. Bridgnorth looked up, smiled a little, but shook his 
head. 

“ What did he say, sir, if I may be so bold as to ask ? ” 
continued Job. 

“ His words were few enough, and he was so reserved 
and short, that, as I said before, I can only give you the 
impression they conveyed to me. I told him, of course, who 
I was, and for what I was sent. He looked pleased, I thought 
— at least his face (sad enough when I went in, I assure ye) 
brightened a little ; but he said he had nothing to say, no 
defence to make. I asked him if he was guilty, then ; and, 

349 


Mary Barton 

by "way of opening his heart, I said I understood he had had 
provocation enough, inasmuch as I heard that the girl was 
very lovely, and had jilted him to fall desperately in love 
with that handsome young Carson (poor fellow)! But 
James Wilson did not speak one way or another. I then 
went to particulars. I asked him if the gun was his, as his 
mother had declared. He had not heard of her admission, 
it was evident, from his quick way of looking up, and the 
glance of his eye ; but when he saw I was observing him, 
he hung down his head again, and merely said she was 
right ; it was his gun.” 

“ Well! ” said Job impatiently, as Mr. Bridgnorth paused. 

“ Nay ! I have little more to tell you,” continued that 
gentleman. “ I asked him to inform me, in all confidence, 
how it came to be found there. He was silent for a time, 
and then refused. Not only refused to answer that question, 
but candidly told me he would not say another word on the 
subject, and, thanking me for my trouble and interest in his 
behalf, he all but dismissed me. Ungracious enough on the 
whole, was it not, Mr. Legh ? And yet, I assure ye, I am 
twenty times more inclined to think him innocent than 
before I had the interview.” 

“ I wish Mary Barton would come,” said Job anxiously. 
“ She and Will are a long time about it.” 

“Ay, that’s our only chance, I believe,” answered Mr. 
Bridgnorth, who was writing again. “I sent Johnson off 
before twelve to serve him with his sub-poena, and to say I 
wanted to speak with him ; he’ll be here soon, I’ve no doubt.” 

There was a pause. Mr. Bridgnorth looked up again, 
and spoke. 

“Mr. Buncombe promised to be here to speak to his 
character. I sent him a sub-poena on Saturday night. 
Though, after all, juries go very little by such general and 
vague testimony as that to character. It is very right that 
they should not often, but in this instance unfortunate for 
us, as we must rest our case on the alihi.” 

The pen went again, scratch, scratch over the paper. 

350 


A True Bill against Jem 

Job grew very fidgety. He sat on the edge of his chair, 
the more readily to start up when Will and Mary should 
appear. He listened intently to every noise and every step 
on the stair. 

Once he heard a man’s footstep, and his old heart gave 
a leap of delight. But it was only Mr. Bridgnorth’s clerk, 
bringing him a list of those cases in which the grand jury 
had found true bills. He glanced it over and pushed it to 
Job, merely saying — 

“ Of course we expected this,” and went on with his 
writing. 

There was a true bill against James Wilson. Of course. 
And yet Job felt now doubly anxious and sad. It seemed 
the beginning of the end. He had got, by imperceptible 
degrees, to think Jem innocent. Little by little this per- 
suasion had come upon him. 

Mary (tossing about in the little boat on the broad river) 
did not come, nor did Will. 

Job grew very restless. He longed to go and watch for 
them out of the window, but feared to interrupt Mr. Bridg- 
north. At length his desire to look out was irresistible, and 
he got up and walked carefully and gently across the room, 
his boots creaking at every cautious step. The gloom which 
had overspread the sky, and the influence of which had been 
felt by Mary on the open water, was yet more perceptible in 
the dark, dull street. Job grew more and more fidgety. 
He was obliged to walk about the room, for he could not 
keep still; and he did so, regardless of Mr. Bridgnorth’s 
impatient little motions and noises, as the slow, stealthy, 
creaking movements were heard, backwards and forwards, 
behind his chair. 

He really liked Job, and was interested for Jem, else his 
nervousness would have overcome his sympathy long before 
it did. But he could hold out no longer against the 
monotonous, grating sound; so at last he threw down his 
pen, locked his portfolio, and taking up his hat and gloves, 
he told Job he must go to the courts. 

351 


Mary Barton 

“But Will Wilson is not come,” said Job in dismay. 
“ Just wait while I run to his lodgings. I would have done 
it before, hut I thought they’d be here every minute, and I 
were afraid of missing them. I’ll be back in no time.” 

“No, my good fellow, I really must go. Besides, I begin 
to think Johnson must have made a mistake, and have fixed 
with this William Wilson to meet me at the courts. If you 
like to wait for him here, pray make use of my room ; but 
I’ve a notion I shall find him there : in which case. I’ll send 
him to your lodgings; shall I? You know where to find 
me. I shall be here again by eight o’clock, and, with the 
evidence of this witness that’s to prove the alibi, I’ll have 
the brief drawn out, and in the hands of counsel to-night.” 

So saying he shook hands with Job, and went his way. 
The old man considered for a minute as he fingered at the 
door, and then bent his steps towards Mrs. Jones’s, where 
he knew (from reference to queer, odd, heterogeneous 
memoranda, in an ancient black-leather pocket-book) that 
Will lodged, and where he doubted not he should hear both 
of him and of Mary. 

He went there, and gathered what intelligence he could 
out of Mrs. Jones’s slow replies. 

He asked if a young woman had been there that morning, 
and if she had seen Will Wilson. “ No ! ” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Why, bless you, ’cause he had sailed some hours before 
she came asking for him.” 

There was a dead silence, broken only by the even, heavy 
sound of Mrs. Jones’s ironing. 

“ Where is the young woman now ? ” asked Job. 

“ Somewhere down at the docks,” she thought. “ Charley 
would know, if he was in, but he wasn’t. He was in mis- 
chief, somewhere or other, she had no doubt. Boys always 
were. He would break his neck some day, she knew;” so 
saying, she quietly spat upon her fresh iron, to test its heat, 
and then went on with her business. 

Job could have boxed her, he was in such a state of 

352 


A True Bill against Jem 

irritation. But he did not, and he had his reward. Charley 
came in, whistling with an air of indifference, assumed to 
carry off his knowledge of the lateness of the hour to which 
he had lingered about the docks. 

“ Here’s an old man come to know where the young 
woman is who went out with thee this morning,” said his 
mother, after she had bestowed on him a little motherly 
scolding. 

“ Where she is now I don’t know. I saw her last sailing 
down the river after the John Cropper. I’m afeard she won’t 
reach her; wind changed, and she would be under weigh, 
and over the bar in no time. She would have been back 
by now.” 

It took Job some little time to understand this, from the 
confused use of the feminine pronoun. Then he inquired 
how he could best find Mary. 

“I’ll run down again to the pier,” said the boy; “I’ll 
warrant I’ll find her.” 

“ Thou shalt do no such a thing,” said his mother, setting 
her back against the door. The lad made a comical face at 
Job, which met with no responsive look from the old man, 
whose sympathies were naturally in favour of the parent : 
although he would thankfully have availed himself of 
Charley’s offer, for he was weary, and anxious to return 
to poor Mrs. Wilson, who would be wondering what had 
become of him. 

“ How can I best find her ? Who did she go with, lad ? ” 

But Charley was sullen at his mother’s exercise of 
authority before a stranger, and at that stranger’s grave 
looks when he meant to have made him laugh. 

“ They were river boatmen ; — that’s all I know,” said he. 

“ But what was the name of their boat ? ” persevered Job. 

“ I never took no notice ; — the Anne, or William, — or 
some of them common names. I’ll be bound.” 

“ What pier did she start from ? ” asked Job despairingly. 

“ Oh, as for that matter, it were the stairs on the Prince’s 
Pier she started from ; but she’ll not come back to the same, 

353 2 A 


Mary Barton 

for the American steamer came up with the tide, and 
anchored close to it, blocking up the way for all the smaller 
craft. It’s a rough evening, too, to be out on,” he maliciously 
added. 

“ Well, God’s will be done ! I did hope we could have 
saved the lad,” said Job sorrowfully; “but I’m getten very 
doubtful again. I’m uneasy about Mary, too, — very. She’s 
a stranger in Liverpool.” 

“ So she told me,” said Charley. “ There’s traps about 
for young women at every corner. It’s a pity she’s no one 
to meet her when she lands.” 

“ As for that,” replied Job, “I don’t see how any one 
could meet her when we can’t tell where she would come 
to. I must trust to her coming right. She’s getten spirit 
and sense. She’ll most likely be for coming here again. 
Indeed, I don’t know what else she can do, for she knows 
no other place in Liverpool. Missus, if she comes, will you 
give your son leave to bring her to No. 8, Back Garden 
Court, where there’s friends waiting for her ? I’ll give him 
sixpence for his trouble.” 

Mrs. Jones, pleased with the reference to her, gladly 
promised. And even Charley, indignant as he was at first 
at the idea of his motions being under the control of his 
mother, was mollified at the prospect of the sixpence, and 
at the probability of getting nearer to the heart of the 
mystery. 

But Mary never came. 


354 


Job Legh’s Deception 


CHAPTEE XXX 
JOB legh’s deception 

“ Oh 1 sad is the night-time, 

The night-time of sorrow, 

When, through the deep gloom, we catch but the boom 
Of the waves that may whelm us to-morrow.” 

Job found Mrs. Wilson pacing about in a restless way; not 
speaking to the woman at whose house she was staying, but 
occasionally heaving such deep oppressive sighs as quite 
startled those around her. 

“ Well ! ” said she, turning sharp round in her tottering 
walk up and down as Job came in. 

“ Well, speak I " repeated she, before he could make up 
his mind what to say ; for, to tell the truth, he was studying 
for some kind-hearted lie which might soothe her for a time. 
But now the real state of the case came blurting forth in 
answer to her impatient questioning. 

“ Will’s not to the fore. But he’ll maybe turn up yet, 
time enough.” 

She looked at him steadily for a minute, as if almost 
doubting if such despair could be in store for her as his words 
seemed to imply. Then she slowly shook her head, and 
said, more quietly than might have been expected from her 
previous excited manner : 

“ Don’t go for to say that ! Thou dost not think it. 
Thou’rt well-nigh hopeless, like me. I seed all along my 
lad would be hung for what he never did. And better he 
were, and were shut* of this weary world, where there’s 
neither justice nor mercy left.” 

She looked up with tranced eyes as if praying, and then 
sat down. 

“Nay, now thou’rt off at a gallop,” said Job. “Will 
* “ Shut,” quit. 

355 


Mary Barton 

has sailed this morning, for sure; but that brave wench, 
Mary Barton, is after him, and will bring him back. I’ll be 
bound, if she can but get speech on him. She’s not back 
yet. Come, come, hold up thy head. It will all end right.” 

“ It will all end right,” echoed she ; “ but not as thou 
tak’st it. Jem will be hung, and will go to his father and 
the little lads, where the Lord God wipes away all tears, and 
where the Lord Jesus speaks kindly to the httle ones, who look 
about for the mothers they left upon earth. Eh, Job, yon’s 
a blessed land,, and I long to go to it ; and yet I fret because 
Jem is hastening there. I would not fret if he and I could 
lie down to-night to sleep our last sleep; not a bit would 
I fret if folk would but know him to be innocent — as 
I do.” 

“ They’ll know it sooner or later, and repent sore if 
they’ve hanged him for what he never did,” replied Job. 

Ay, that they will. Poor souls ! May God have mercy 
on them when they find out their mistake.” 

Presently Job grew tired of sitting waiting, and got up, 
and hung about the door and window, like some animal 
wanting to go out. It was pitch dark, for the moon had not 
yet risen. 

“ You just go to bed,” said he to the widow ; “ you’ll 
want your strength for to-morrow. Jem will be sadly off, if 
he sees you so cut up as you look to-night. I’ll step down 
again and find Mary. She’ll be back by this time. I’ll 
come and tell you everything, never fear. But now, you go 
to bed.” 

“ Thou’rt a kind friend, Job Legh, and I’ll go, as thou 
wishest me. But, oh ! mind thou com’st straight off to me, 
and bring Mary as soon as thou’st lit on her.” She spoke 
low, but very calmly. 

“ Ay, ay ! ” replied Job, slipping out of the house. 

He went first to Mr. Bridgnorth’s, where it had struck 
him that Will and Mary might be all this time waiting for 
him. 

They were not there, however. Mr. Bridgnorth had just 

356 


Job Legh’s Deception 

come in, and Job went breathlessly upstairs to consult with 
him as to the state of the case. 

“ It’s a bad job,” said the lawyer, looking very grave, 
while he arranged his papers. “ Johnson told me how it 
was ; the woman that Wilson lodged with told him. I doubt 
it’s but a wildgoose chase of the girl Barton. Our case must 
rest on the uncertainty of circumstantial evidence, and the 
goodness of the prisoner’s previous character. A very vague 
and weak defence. However, I’ve engaged Mr. Clinton as 
counsel, and he’ll make the best of it. And now, my good 
fellow,*! must wish you good-night, and turn you out of 
doors. As it is, I shall have to sit up into the small hours. 
Did you see my clerk as you came upstairs? You did! 
Then, may I trouble you to ask him to step up immediately.” 

After this Job could not stay, and, making his humble 
bow, he left the room. 

Then he went to Mrs. Jones’s. She was in, but Charley 
had slipped off again. There was no holding that boy. 
Nothing kept him but lock and key, and they did not always ; 
for once she had him locked up in the garret, and he had 
got off through the skylight. Perhaps now he was gone to 
see after the young woman down at the docks. He never 
wanted an excuse to be there. 

Unasked, Job took a chair, resolved to wait Charley’s 
reappearance. 

Mrs. Jones ironed and folded her clothes, talking all the 
time of Charley and her husband, who was a sailor in some 
ship bound for India, and who, in leaving her their boy, had 
evidently left her rather more than she could manage. She 
moaned and croaked over sailors, and seaport towns, and 
stormy weather, and sleepless nights, and trousers all over 
tar and pitch, long after Job had left off attending to her, 
and was only trying to hearken to every step and every voice 
in the street. 

At last Charley came in, but he came alone! 

“Yon Mary Barton has gotten into some scrape or 
another,” said he, addressing himself to Job. “ She’s not to 

357 


Mary Barton 

be heard of at any of the piers ; and Bourne says it were a 
boat from the Cheshire side as she went aboard of. So 
there’s no hearing of her till to-morrow morning.” 

“ To-morrow morning she’ll have to be in court at nine 
o’clock, to bear witness on a trial,” said Job sorrowfully. 

“ So she said ; at least somewhat of the kind,” said 
Charley, looking desirous to hear more. But Job was 
silent. 

He could not think of anything further that could be 
done; so he rose up, and, thanking Mrs. Jones for the 
shelter she had given him, he went out into the street ; and 
there he stood still, to ponder over probabihties and chances. 

After some little time he slowly turned towards the 
lodging where he had left Mrs. Wilson. There was nothing 
else to be done ; but he loitered on the way, fervently hoping 
that her weariness and her woes might have sent her to 
sleep before his return, that he might be spared her 
questionings. 

He went very gently into the house-place where the 
sleepy landlady awaited his coming and his bringing the 
girl, who, she had been told, was to share the old woman’s 
bed. 

But in her sleepy blindness she knocked things so about 
in lighting the candle (she could see to have a nap by fire- 
light, she said), that the voice of Mrs. Wilson was heard 
from the little back-room, where she was to pass the night. 

“ Who’s there ? ” 

Job gave no answer, and kept down his breath, that she 
might think herself mistaken. The landlady, having no 
such care, dropped the snuffers with a sharp metaUic sound, 
and then, by her endless apologies, convinced the listening 
woman that Job had returned. 

“ Job ! Job Legh ! ” she cried out nervously. 

“ Eh, dear ! ” said Job to himself, going reluctantly to her 
bedroom door. “ I wonder if one little lie would be a sin, as 
things stand? It would happen give her sleep, and she 
^von’t have sleep for many and many a night (not to call 

358 


Job Legh’s Deception 

sleep), if things goes wrong to-morrow. I’ll chance it, any 
way.” 

“ Job ! art thou there ? ” asked she again with a trembling 
impatience that told in every tone of her voice. 

“Ay ! sure ! I thought thou’d ha’ been asleep by this time.” 

“ Asleep ! How could I sleep till I know’d if Will were 
found?” 

“Now for it,” muttered Job to himself. Then in a 
louder voice, “ Never fear ! he’s found, and safe, ready for 
to-morrow.” 

“And he’ll prove that thing for my poor lad, will he? 
He’ll bear witness that Jem were with him ? 0 Job, speak ! 
tell me all 1 ” 

“ In for a penny, in for a pound,” thought Job. “ Happen 
one prayer will do for the sum total. Any rate, I must go on 
now. Ay, ay,” shouted he, through the door. “He can 
prove all ; and Jem will come off as clear as a new-born 
babe.” 

He could hear Mrs. Wilson’s rustling movements, and in 
an instant guessed she was on her knees, for he heard hei 
trembhng voice uplifted in thanksgiving and praise to God, 
stopped at times by sobs of gladness and relief. 

And when he heard this, his heart misgave him ; for ha 
thought of the awful enhghtening, the terrible revulsion of 
feeling that awaited her in the morning. He saw the short- 
sightedness of falsehood ; but what could he do now ? 

While he listened, she ended her grateful prayers. 

“ And Mary ? Thou’st found her at Mrs. Jones’s, Job ? ” 
said she, continuing her inquiries. 

He gave a great sigh. 

“ Yes, she was there, safe enough, second time of going. 
God forgive me I ” muttered he, “ who’d ha’ thought of m^ 
turning out such an arrant liar in my old days.” 

“ Bless the wench ! Is she here ? Why does not she 
come tb bed? I’m sure she’s need.” 

Job coughed away his remains of conscience, and made 
answer — 


359 


Mary Barton 

“ She was a bit weary, and o’er done with her sail ; and 
Mrs. Jones axed her to stay there all night. It was nigh at 
hand to the courts, where she will have to be in the morning.” 

“ It comes easy enough after a while,” groaned out Job. 
“ The father of lies helps one, I suppose, for now my speech 
comes as natural as truth. She’s done questioning now, 
that’s one good thing. I’ll be off, before Satan and she are 
at me again.” 

He went to the house-place, where the landlady stood 
wearily waiting. Her husband was in bed, and asleep long ago. 

But Job had not yet made up his mind what to do. He 
could not go to sleep, with all his anxieties, if he were put 
into the best bed in Liverpool. 

“ Thou’lt let me sit up in this arm-chair,” said he at length 
to the woman, who stood, expecting his departure. 

He was an old friend, so she let him do as he wished. 
But, indeed, she was too sleepy to have opposed him. She 
was too glad to be released and go to bed. 


CHAPTEE XXXI 

HOW MARY PASSED THE NIGHT 
“ To think 

That all this long interminable night. 

Which I have passed in thinking on two words — 

‘ Guilty 1 ’ — ‘ Not Guilty 1 ’ — like one happy moment 
O’er many a head hath flown unheeded by ; 

O’er happy sleepers dreaming in their bliss 
Of bright to-morrows — or far happier still. 

With deep breath buried in forgetfulness. 

Oh, all the dismallest images of death 
Did swim before my eyes I ” 

Wilson. 

And now, where was Mary ? 

How Job’s heart would have been relieved of one of its 
cares if he could have seen her : for he was in a miserable 

360 


How Mary passed the Night 

state of anxiety about her; and many and many a time 
through that long night he scolded her and himself — her for 
her obstinacy, and himself for his weakness in yielding to her 
obstinacy, when she insisted on being the one to follow and 
find out Will. 

She did not pass that night in bed any more than Job ; 
but she was under a respectable roof, and among kind, 
though rough people. 

She had offered no resistance to the old boatman, when 
he had clutched her arm, in order to insure her following 
him, as he threaded the crowded dock-ways, and dived up 
strange by-streets. She came on meekly after him, scarcely 
thinking in her stupor where she was going, and glad (in 
a dead, heavy way) that some one was deciding things 
for her. 

He led her to an old-fashioned house, almost as small as 
house could be, which had been built long ago, before all the 
other part of the street, and had a country-town look about 
it in the middle of that bustling back-street. He pulled her 
into the house-place ; and relieved to a certain degree of his 
fear of losing her on the way, he exclaimed — 

“ There ! ” giving a great slap of one hand on her back. 

The room was light and bright, and roused Mary (perhaps 
the slap on her back might help a little too), and she felt the 
awkwardness of accounting for her presence to a little 
bustling old woman who had been moving about the fireplace 
on her entrance. The boatman took it very quietly, never 
deigning to give any explanation, but sitting down in his own 
particular chair, and chewing tobacco, while he looked at 
Mary with the most satisfied air imaginable, half triumph- 
antly, as if she were the captive of his bow and spear, and 
half defying, as if daring her to escape. 

The old woman, his wife, stood still, poker in hand, wait- 
ing to be told who it was that her husband had brought home 
so unceremoniously ; but, as she looked in amazement, the 
girl’s cheek flushed, and then blanched to a dead whiteness ; 
a film came over her eyes, and, catching at the dresser for 

361 


Mary Barton 

support in that hot whirling room, she fell in a heap on the 
floor. 

Both man and wife came quickly to her assistance. They 
raised her up, still insensible, and he supported her on one 
knee, while his wife pattered away for some cold fresh water. 
She threw it straight over Mary ; but, though it caused a 
great sob, the eyes still remained closed, and the face as pale 
as ashes. 

“ Who is she, Ben ? ” asked the woman, as she rubbed 
her unresisting, powerless hands. 

“ How should I know ? ” answered her husband gruffly. 

“ Well-a-well ” (in a soothing tone, such as you use to 
irritated children, and as if half to herself), “ I only thought 
you might, you know, as you brought her home. Poor thing ! 
we must not ask aught about her, but that she needs help. 
I wish I’d my salts at home, but I lent ’em to Mrs. Burton, 
last Sunday in church, for she could not keep awake through 
the sermon. Dear-a-me, how white she is ! ” 

“ Here ! you hold her up a bit,” said her husband. 

She did as he desired, still crooning to herself, not caring 
for his short, sharp interruptions as she went on ; and, indeed, 
to her old, loving heart, his crossest words fell like pearls and 
diamonds, for he had been the husband of her youth ; and 
even he, rough and crabbed as he was, was secretly soothed 
by the sound of her voice, although not for worlds, if he could 
have helped it, would he have shown any of the love that 
was hidden beneath his rough outside. 

“ What’s the old fellow after ? ” said she, bending over 
Mary, so as to accommodate the drooping head. “ Taking 
my pen, as I’ve had for better nor five year. Bless us, and 
save us ! he’s burning it ! Ay, I see now, he’s his wits about 
him ; burnt feathers is always good for a faint. But they 
don’t bring her round, poor wench ! Now what’s he after 
next ? Well ! he is a bright one, my old man ! That I never 
thought of that, to be sure ! ” exclaimed she, as he produced 
a square bottle of smuggled spirits, labelled “ Golden Wasser,” 
from a corner cupboard in their little room. 

362 


How Mary passed the Night 

“ That’ll do ! ” said she, as the dose he poured into Mary’s 
open mouth made her start and cough. “ Bless the man. 
It’s just like him to be so tender and thoughtful ! ” 

“ Not a bit ! ” snarled he, as he was relieved by Mary’s 
returning colour, and opened eyes, and wondering, sensible 
gaze ; “ not a bit. I never was such a fool afore.” 

His wife helped Mary to rise, and placed her in a chair. 

“ All’s right now, young woman ? ” asked the boatman 
anxiously. 

“ Yes, sir, and thank you. I’m sure, sir, I don’t know 
rightly how to thank you,” faltered Mary softly forth. 

“ Be hanged to you and your thanks.” And he shook 
himself, took his pipe, and went out without deigning another 
word ; leaving his wife sorely puzzled as to the character and 
history of the stranger within her doors. 

Mary watched the boatman leave the house, and then, 
turning her sorrowful eyes to the face of her hostess, she 
attempted feebly to rise, with the intention of going away, — 
where, she knew not. 

“ Nay ! nay ! whoe’er thou be’st, thou’rt not fit to go out 
into the street. Perhaps ” (sinking her voice a little) “ thou’rt 
a bad one ; I almost misdoubt thee, thou’rt so pretty. Well- 
a-well! it’s the bad ones as have the broken hearts, sure 
enough; good folk never get utterly cast down, they’ve 
always getten hope in the Lord ; it’s the sinful as bear the 
bitter, bitter grief in their crushed hearts, poor souls; it’s 
them we ought, most of all, to pity and to help. She shanna 
leave the house to-night, choose who she is, — worst woman 
in Liverpool, she shanna. I wished I knew where th’ old 
man picked her up, that I do.” 

Mary had hstened feebly to this soliloquy, and now tried 
to satisfy her hostess in weak, broken sentences. 

“ I’m not a bad one, missis, indeed. Your master took 
me out to see after a ship as had sailed. There was a man 
in it as might save a life at the trial to-morrow. The captain 
would not let him come, but he says he’ll come back in the 
pilot-boat.” She fell to sobbing at the thought of her waning 

363 


Mary Barton 

hopes, and the old woman tried to comfort her, beginning 
with her accustomed — 

“ Well-a-well ! and he’ll come back, I’m sure. I know 
he will ; so keep up your heart. Don’t fret about it. He’s 
sure to be back.” 

“ Oh ! I’m afraid ! I’m sore afraid he won’t,” cried Mary, 
consoled, nevertheless, by the woman’s assertions, all ground- 
less as she knew them to be. 

Still talking half to herself and half to Mary, the old 
woman prepared tea, and urged her visitor to eat and refresh 
herself. But Mary shook her head at the proffered food, and 
only drank a cup of tea with thirsty eagerness. For the 
spirits had thrown her into a burning heat, and rendered 
each impression received through her senses of the most 
painful distinctness and intensity, while her head ached in a 
terrible manner. 

She disliked speaking, her power over her words seemed 
so utterly gone. She used quite different expressions to those 
she intended. So she kept silent, while Mrs. Sturgis (for 
that was the name of her hostess) talked away, and put her 
tea-things by, and moved about incessantly, in a manner that 
increased the dizziness in Mary’s head. She felt as if she 
ought to take leave for the night and go. But where ? 

Presently the old man came back, crosser and gruffer 
than when he went away. He kicked aside the dry shoes 
his wife had prepared for him, and snarled at all she said. 
Mary attributed this to his finding her still there, and gathered 
up her strength for an effort to leave the house. But she 
was mistaken. By-and-by, he said (looking right into the 
fire, as if addressing it), “ Wind’s right against them ! ” 

“ Ay, ay, and is it so ? ” said his wife, who, knowing him 
well, knew that his surliness proceeded from some repressed 
sympathy. “ Well-a-well, wind changes often at night. 
Time enough before morning. I’d bet a penny it has changed 
sin’ thou looked.” 

She looked out of her little window at a weathercock near, 
glittering in the moonlight ; and, as she was a sailor’s wife, 

364 


How Mary passed the Night 

she instantly recognised the unfavourable point at which the 
indicator seemed stationary, and, giving a heavy sigh, turned 
into the room, and began to beat about in her own mind for 
some other mode of comfort. 

“ There’s no one else who can prove what you want at 
the trial to-morrow, is there? ” asked she. 

“No one ! ” answered Mary. 

“ And you’ve no clue to the one as is really guilty, if 
t’other is not ? ” 

Mary did not answer, but trembled all over. 

Sturgis saw it. 

“ Don’t bother her with thy questions,” said he to his 
wife. “ She mun go to bed, for she’s all in a shiver with the 
sea air. I’ll see after the wind, hang it, and the weathercock 
too. Tide will help ’em when it turns.” 

Mary went upstairs, murmuring thanks and blessings on 
those who took the stranger in. Mrs. Sturgis led her into a 
little room redolent of the sea and foreign lands. There was 
a small bed for one son, bound for China ; and a hammock 
slung above for another, who was now tossing in the Baltic. 
The sheets looked made out of sail-cloth, but were fresh and 
clean in spite of their brownness. 

Against the wall were watered two rough drawings of 
vessels with their names written underneath, on which the 
mother’s eyes caught, and gazed until they filled with tears. 
But she brushed the drops away with the back of her hand, 
and in a cheerful tone went on to assure Mary the bed was 
well aired. 

“ I cannot sleep, thank you. I will sit here, if you please,” 
said Mary, sinking down on the window-seat. 

“ Come, now,” said Mrs. Sturgis, “ my master told me to 
see you to bed, and I mun. What’s the use of watching ? 
A watched pot never boils, and I see you are after watching 
that weathercock. Why now, I try never to look at it, else 
I could do nought else. My heart many a time goes sick 
when the wind rises, but I turn away and work away, and try 
never to think on the wind, but on what I ha’ gotten to do.” 

365 


Mary Barton 

“ Let me stay up a little,” pleaded Mary, as her hostess 
seemed so resolute about seeing her to bed. Her looks won 
her suit. 

“ Well, I suppose I mun. I shall catch it downstairs, I 
know. He’ll be in a fidget till you’re getten to bed, I know ; 
so you mun be quiet if you are so bent upon staying up.” 

And quietly, noiselessly, Mary watched the unchanging 
weathercock through the night. She sat on the little window- 
seat, her hand holding back the curtain which shaded the 
room from the bright moonlight without ; her head resting 
its weariness against the corner of the window-frame; her 
eyes burning, and stiff with the intensity of her gaze. 

The ruddy morning stole up the horizon, casting a crimson 
glow into the watcher’s room. 

It was the morning of the day of trial ! 


1 


CHAPTEE XXXII 

THE TRIAL AND VERDICT — “ NOT GUILTY ! ” 

“ Thou stand’st here arraign’d. 

That with presumption impious and accurs’d, 

Thou hast usurp’d God’s high prerogative. 

Making thy fellow mortal’s life and death 
Wait on thy moody and diseased passions; 

That with a violent and imtimely steel 

Hath set abroach the blood, that should have ebbed 

In calm and natural current : to smn all 

In one wild name — a name the pale air freezes at, 

And every cheek of man sinks in with horror — 

Thou art a cold and midnight murderer.” 

Milman’s “Fazio.” 

Of all the restless people who found that night’s hours 
agonising from excess of anxiety, the poor father of the 
murdered man was perhaps the most restless. He had slept 

366 


“Not Guilty!” 

but little since the blow had fallen ; his waking hours had 
been too full of agitated thought, which seemed to haunt and 
pursue him through his unquiet slumbers. 

And this night of all others was the most sleepless. He 
turned over and over again in his mind the wonder if every- 
thing had been done, that could be done, to insure the con- 
viction of Jem Wilson. He almost regretted the haste with 
which he had urged forward the proceedings, and yet, until 
he had obtained vengeance, he felt as if there were no peace 
on earth for him (I don’t know that he exactly used the term 
‘vengeance’ in his thoughts ; he spoke of justice, and probably 
thought of his desired end as such) ; no peace, either bodily 
or mental, for he moved up and down his bedroom with the 
restless incessant tramp of a wild beast in a cage, and, if he 
compelled his aching limbs to cease for an instant, the twitch- 
ing which ensued almost amounted to convulsions, and he 
recommenced his walk as the lesser evil, and the more bear- 
able fatigue. 

With daylight, increased power of action came ; and he 
drove off to arouse his attorney, and worry him with further 
directions and inquiries ; and, when that was ended, he sat, 
watch in hand, until the courts should be opened, and the 
trial begin. 

What were all the living, — wife or daughters, — what were 
they in comparison with the dead — the murdered son who 
lay unburied still, in compliance with his father’s earnest 
wish, and almost vowed purpose, of having the slayer of his 
child sentenced to death, before he committed the body to 
the rest of the grave ? 

At nine o’clock they all met at their awful place of 
rendezvous. 

The judge, the jury, the avenger of hlood, the prisoner, 
the witnesses— all were gathered together within the building. 
And besides these were many others, personally interested in 
some part of the proceedings, in which, however, they took 
no part; Job Legh, Ben Sturgis, and several others were 
there, amongst whom was Charley Jones. 

3^7 


Mary Barton 

Job Legh had carefully avoided any questioning from 
Mrs. Wilson that morning. Indeed, he had not been much 
in her company, for he had risen up early to go out once 
more to make inquiry for Mary ; and, when he could hear 
nothing of her, he had desperately resolved not to undeceive 
Mrs. Wilson, as sorrow never came too late ; and, if the blow 
were inevitable, it would be better to leave her in ignorance 
of the impending evil as long as possible. She took her 
place in the witness-room, worn and dispirited, but not 
anxious. 

As Job struggled through the crowd into the body of the 
court, Mr. Bridgnorth’s clerk beckoned to him. 

“ Here’s a letter for you from our chent ! ” 

Job sickened as he took it. He did not know why, but 
he dreaded a confession of guilt, which would be an over- 
throw of all hope. 

The letter ran as follows — 

“ Deab Friend, — I thank you heartily for your goodness 
in finding me a lawyer, but lawyers can do no good to me, 
whatever they may do to other people. But I am not the 
less obliged to you, dear friend. I foresee things will go 
against me — and no wonder. If I was a juryman I should 
say the man was guilty as had as much evidence brought 
against him as may be brought against me to-morrow. So 
it’s no blame to them if they do. But, Job Legh, I think I 
need not tell you I am as guiltless in this matter as the babe 
\mborn, although it is not in my power to prove it. If I did 
not believe that you thought me innocent, I could not write 
as I do now to tell you my wishes. You’ll not forget they 
are the words of a man shortly to die. Dear friend, you 
must take care of my mother. Not in the money way, for 
she will have enough for her and Aunt Alice ; but you must 
let her talk to you of me ; and show her that (whatever others 
may do) you think I died innocent. I don’t reckon she’ll 
stay long behind when we are all gone. Be tender with her. 
Job, for my sake ; and, if she is a bit fractious at times, 

368 


“Not Guilty!” 

remember what she has gone through. I know mother will 
never doubt me, God bless her. 

“ There is one other whom I fear I have loved too dearly ; 
and yet, the loving her has made the happiness of my hfe. 
She will think I have murdered her lover ; she will think I 
have caused the grief she must be feeling. And she must 
go on thinking so. It is hard upon me to say this ; but she 
must. It will be best for her, and that’s all I ought to think 
on. But, dear Job, you are a hearty fellow for your time 
of life, and may live many years to come ; and perhaps you 
could tell her, when you felt sure you were drawing near 
your end, that I solemnly told you (as I do now) that I was 
innocent of this thing. You must not tell her for many 
years to come ; but I cannot well bear to think on her hving 
through a long life, and hating the thought of me as the 
murderer of him she loved, and dying with that hatred to me 
in her heart. It would hurt me sore in the other world to 
see the look of it in her face, as it would be, till she was 
told. I must not let myself think on how she must be 
viewing me now. 

“ So God bless you. Job Legh ; and no more from yours 
to command, 

“James Wilson.” 

Job turned the letter over and over when he had read it; 
sighed deeply ; and then, wrapping it carefully up in a bit 
of newspaper he had about him, he put it in his waistcoat 
pocket, and went off to the door of the witness-roUlpa to ask 
if Mary Barton was there. 

As the door opened he saw her sitting within, against 
a table on which her folded arms were resting, and her head 
was hidden within them. It was an attitude of hopelessness, 
and would have served to strike Job dumb in sickness of 
heart, even without the sound of Mrs. Wilson’s voice in 
passionate sobbing, and sore lamentations, which told him 
as well as words could do (for she was not within view of 
the door, and he did not care to go in), that she was at 

369 2 B 


Mary Barton 

any rate partially undeceived as to the hopes he had given 
her last night. 

Sorrowfully did Job return into the body of the court ; 
neither Mrs. Wilson nor Mary having seen him as he had 
stood at the witnestf-room door. 

As soon as he could bring his distracted thoughts to bear 
upon the present scene, he perceived that the trial of James 
Wilson for the murder of Henry Carson was just com- 
mencing. The clerk was gabbling over the indictment, and 
in a minute or two there was the accustomed question, 
“ How say you, Guilty or Not Guilty ? ” 

Although but one answer was expected, — was customary 
in all cases, — there was a pause of dead silence, an interval 
of solemnity even in this hackneyed part of the proceeding ; 
while the prisoner at the bar stood with compressed lips, 
looking at the judge with his outward eyes, but with far 
other and different scenes presented to his mental vision: 
a sort of rapid recapitulation of his life, — remembrances of 
his childhood, — his father (so proud of him, his first-bom 
child), — his sweet little play-fellow, Mary, — his hopes, his 
love, — his despair, yet still, yet ever and ever, his love, — the 
blank wide world it had been without her love, — his mother, 
— his childless mother, — but not long to be so, — not long 
to be away from all she loved, — nor during that time to 
be oppressed with doubt as to his innocence, sure and secure 
of her darling’s heart ; — he started from his instant’s pause, 
and said in a low firm voice — 

“ Not guilty, my lord.” 

The circumstances of the murder, the discovery of the 
body, the causes of suspicion against Jem, were as well known 
to most of the audience as they are to you, so there was 
some little buzz of conversation going on among the people 
while the leading counsel for the prosecution made his very 
effective speech. 

“ That’s Mr. Carson, the father, sitting behind Serjeant 
Wilkinson ! ” 

“What a noble-looijing old man he is! so stem and 
370 


“Not Guilty!” 

inflexible, with such classical features I Does he not remind 
you of some of the busts of Jupiter? ” 

“ I am more interested by watching the prisoner. 
Criminals always interest me. I try to trace in the features 
common to humanity some expression of the crimes by 
which they have distinguished themselves from their kind. 
I have seen a good number of murderers in my day, but I 
have seldom seen one with such marks of Cain on his 
countenance as the man at the bar.” 

“ Well, I am no physiognomist, but I don’t think his face 
strikes me as had. It certainly is gloomy and depressed, and 
not unnaturally so, considering his situation.” 

“ Only look at his low, resolute brow, his downcast 
eye, his white compressed lips. He never looks up, — just 
watch him.” 

His forehead is not so low if he had that mass of black 
hair removed, and is very square, which some people say 
is a good sign. If others are to be influenced by such trifles 
as you are, it would have been much better if the prison 
barber had cut his hair a little previous to the trial; and 
as for downcast eye, and compressed lip, it is all part and 
parcel of his inward agitation just now ; nothing to do with 
character, my good fellow.” 

Poor Jem ! His raven hair (his mother’s pride, and so 
often fondly caressed by her fingers), was that, too, to have 
its influence against him ? 

The witnesses were called. At first they consisted prin- 
cipally of policemen ; who, being much accustomed to giving 
evidence, knew what were the material points they were 
called on to prove, and did not lose the time of the court 
in listening to anything unnecessary. 

“Clear as day against the prisoner,” whispered one 
attorney’s clerk to another. 

“ Black as night, you mean,” replied his friend; and they 
both smiled. 

“Jane Wilson! who’s she? some relation, I suppose, 
from the name.” 




371 


Mary Barton 

“The mother, — she that is to prove the gun part of 
the case.” 

“ Oh, ay — I remember ! Bather hard on her, too, I think.” 

Then both were silent, as one of the officers of the court 
ushered Mrs. Wilson into the witness-box. I have often 
called her “ the old woman,” and “ an old woman,” because, 
in truth, her appearance was so much beyond her years, 
which could not be many above fifty. But, partly owing to 
her accident in early life, which left a stamp of pain upon 
her face, partly owing to her anxious temper, partly to her 
sorrows, and partly to her limping gait, she always gave 
me the idea of age. But now she might have seemed more 
than seventy ; her lines were so set and deep, her features 
so sharpened, and her walk so feeble. She was trying to 
check her sobs into composure, and (unconsciously) was 
striving to behave as she thought would best please her poor 
boy, whom she knew she had often grieved by her uncon- 
trolled impatience. He had buried his face in his arms, 
which rested on the front of the dock (an attitude he retained 
during the greater part of his trial, and which prejudiced 
many against him). 

The counsel began the examination. 

“ Your name is Jane Wilson, I believe ? *’ 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ The mother of the prisoner at the bar ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” with quivering voice, ready to break out into 
weeping, but earning respect by the strong effort at self- 
control, prompted, as I have said before, by her earnest wish 
to please her son by her behaviour. 

The barrister now proceeded to the important part of 
the examination, tending to prove that the gun found on the 
scene of the murder was the prisoner’s. She had committed 
herself so fully to the policeman, that she could not well 
retract ; so without much delay in bringing the question 
round to the desired point, the gun was produced in court, 
and the inquiry made — 

“ That gun belongs to your son, does it not ? ” 

372 


“ Not Guilty ! ” 

She clenched the sides of the witness-box in her efforts 
to make her parched tongue utter words. At last she 
moaned forth — 

“ Oh ! Jem, Jem ! what mun I say? ” 

Every one bent forward to hear the prisoner’s answer ; 
although, in fact, it was of little importance to the issue of 
the trial. He lifted up his head ; and with a face brimming 
full of pity for his mother, yet resolved into endurance, said — 

“ Tell the truth, mother ! ” 

And so she did, with the fidelity of a little child. Every 
one felt that she did ; and the little colloquy between mother 
and son did them some slight service in the opinion of the 
audience. But the awful judge sat unmoved ; and the jury- 
men changed not a muscle of their countenances ; while the 
counsel for the prosecution went triumphantly through this 
part of the case, including the fact of Jem’s absence from 
home on the night of the murder, and bringing every 
admission to bear right against the prisoner. 

It was over. She was told to go down. But she could 
no longer compel her mother’s heart to keep silence, and 
suddenly turning towards the judge (with whom she imagined 
the verdict to rest), she thus addressed him with her choking 
voice — 

“ And now, sir, I’ve telled you the truth, and the whole 
truth as he bid me ; but don’t you let what I have said go 
for to hang him ; oh, my lord judge, take my word for it, 
he’s as innocent as the child as has yet to be born. For 
sure, I, who am his mother, and have nursed him on my 
knee, and been gladdened by the sight of him every day 
since, ought to know him better than yon pack of fellows ” 
(indicating the jury, while she strove against her heart to 
render her words distinct and clear for her dear son’s sake) 
“ who. I’ll go bail, never saw him before this morning in all 
their born days. My lord judge, he’s so good I often 
wondered what harm there was in him ; many is the time 
when I’ve been fretted (for I’m frabbit enough at times), when 
I’ve scoldt myself, and said, ‘You ungrateful thing, the 

373 


Mary Barton 

Lord God has given you Jem, and isn’t that blessing enough 
for you.’ But He has seen fit to punish me. If Jem is — if 
Jem is — taken fiom me, I shall be a childless woman ; and 
very poor, having nought left to love on earth, and I cannot 
say ‘ His will be done.’ I cannot, my lord judge, oh, I 
cannot.” 

While sobbing out these words she was led away by the 
officers of the court, but tenderly, and reverently, with the 
respect which great sorrow commands. 

The stream of evidence went on and on, gathering fresh 
force from every witness who was examined, and threatening 
to overwhelm poor Jem. Already they had proved that the 
gun was his, that he had been heard not many days before 
the commission of the deed to threaten the deceased ; indeed, 
that the police had, at that time, been obliged to interfere, 
to prevent some probable act of violence. It only remained 
to bring forward a sufficient motive for the threat and the 
murder. The clue to this had been furnished by the police- 
man who had overheard Jem’s angry language to Mr. 
Carson ; and his report in the first instance had occasioned 
the sub-poena to Mary. 

And now she was to be called on to bear witness. The 
court was by this time almost as full as it could hold ; but 
fresh attempts were being made to squeeze in at all the 
entrances, for many were anxious to see and hear this part 
of the trial. 

Old Mr. Carson felt an additional beat at his heart at the 
thought of seeing the fatal Helen, the cause of all, — a kind 
of interest and yet repugnance, for was not she beloved by 
the dead ; nay, perhaps in her way, loving and mourning for 
the same being that he himself was so bitterly grieving over ? 
And yet he felt as if he abhorred her and her rumoured love- 
liness, as if she were the curse against him ; and he grew 
jealous of the love with which she had inspired his son, and 
would fain have deprived her of even her natural right of 
sorrowing over her lover’s untimely end ; for you see it was 
a fixed idea in the minds of all, that the handsome, bright, 

374 


“ Not Guilty ! ” 

gay, rich young gentleman must have been beloved in pre- 
ference to the serious, almost stem-looking smith, who had to 
toil for his daily bread. 

Hitherto the effect of the trial had equalled Mr. Carson’s 
most sanguine hopes, and a severe look of satisfaction came 
over the face of the avenger, — over that countenance whence 
the smile had departed, never more to return. 

All eyes were directed to the door through which the 
witnesses entered. Even Jem looked up to catch one 
glimpse before he hid his face from her look of aversion. 
The officer had gone to fetch her. 

She was in exactly the same attitude as when Job Legh 
had seen her two hours before through the half-open door. 
Not a finger had moved. The officer summoned her, but 
she did not stir. She was so still, he thought she had fallen 
asleep, and he stepped forward and touched her. She 
started up in an instant, and followed him with a kind of 
rushing rapid motion into the court, into the witness-box. 

And amid all that sea of faces, misty and swimming 
before her eyes, she saw but two clear bright spots, distinct 
and fixed : the judge, who might have to condemn ; and the 
prisoner, who might have to die. 

The mellow sunlight streamed down that high window 
on her head, and fell on the rich treasure of her golden hair, 
stuffed away in masses uri^der her little bonnet-cap ; and in 
those warm beams the motes kept dancing up and down. 
The wind had changed — had changed almost as soon as she 
had given up her watching ; the wind had changed, and 
she heeded it not. 

Many who were looking for mere flesh and blood beauty, 
mere colouring, were disappointed ; for her face was deadly 
white, and almost set in its expression, while a mournful 
bewildered soul looked out of the depths of those soft, deep, 
grey eyes. But others recognised a higher and a stranger 
kind of beauty ; one that would keep its hold on the memory 
for many after years. 

I was not there myself ; but one who was, told me that 

375 


Mary Barton 

her look, and indeed her whole face, was more like the well- 
known engraving from Guido’s picture of “Beatrice Cenci ” 
than anything else he could give me an idea of. He added, 
that her countenance haunted him, like the remembrance of 
some wild sad melody, heard in childhood; that it would 
perpetually recur, with its mute imploring agony. 

With all the court reehng before her (always save and 
except those awful two), she heard a voice speak, and 
answered the simple inquiry (something about her name) 
mechanically, as if in a dream. So she went on for two or 
three more questions, with a strange wonder in her brain, at 
the reality of the terrible circumstances in which she was 
placed. 

Suddenly she was aroused, she knew not how or by what. 
She was conscious that all was real, that hundreds were 
looking at her, that true- sounding words were being extracted 
from her; that that figure, so bowed down, with the face 
concealed with both hands, was really Jem. Her face 
flushed scarlet, and then paler than before. But, in dread 
of herself, with the tremendous secret imprisoned within her, 
she exerted every power she had to keep in the full under- 
standing of what was going on, of what she was asked, and 
of what she answered. With all her faculties preter- 
naturally alive and sensitive, she heard the next question 
from the pert young barrister, who was delighted to have the 
examination of this witness. 

“ And pray, may I ask, which was the favoured lover ? 
You say you knew both these young men. Which was the 
favoured lover ? Which did you prefer ? ” 

And who was he, the questioner, that he should dare so 
lightly to ask of her heart’s secrets ? That he should dare 
to ask her to tell, before that multitude assembled there, 
what woman usually whispers with blushes and tears, and 
many hesitations, to one ear alone ? 

So, for an instant, a look of indignation contracted Mary’s 
brow, as she steadily met the eyes of the impertinent 
counsellor. But, in that instant, she saw the hands removed 

376 


“Not Guilty!” 

from a face beyond, behind ; and a countenance revealed of 
such intense love and woe, — such a deprecating dread of her 
answer ; and suddenly her resolution was taken. The 
present was everything ; the future, that vast shroud, it was 
maddening to think upon ; but now she might own her fault, 
but now she might even own her love. Now, when the 
beloved stood thus, abhorred of men, there would be no 
feminine shame to stand between her and her avowal. So 
she also turned towards the judge, partly to mark that her 
answer was not given to the monkeyfied man who questioned 
her, and likewise that the face might be averted from, and 
her eyes not gaze upon, the form that contracted with the 
dread of the words he anticipated. 

“ He asks me which of them two I liked best. Perhaps 
I liked Mr. Harry Carson once — I don’t know — I’ve for- 
gotten ; but I loved James Wilson, that’s now on trial, above 
what tongue can tell — above all else on earth put together ; 
and I love him now better than ever, though he has never 
known a word of it till this minute. For you see, sir, 
mother died before I was thirteen, before I could know right 
from wrong about some things ; and I was giddy and vain, 
and ready to listen to any praise of my good looks ; and this 
poor young Mr. Carson fell in with me, and told me he loved 
me; and I was foolish enough to think he meant me 
marriage ; a mother is a pitiful loss to a girl, sir ; and so I 
used to fancy I could like to be a lady, and rich, and never 
know want any more. I never found out how dearly I loved 
another till one day, when James Wilson asked me to marry 
him, and I was very hard and sharp in my answer (for, 
indeed, sir, I’d a deal to bear just then), and he took me 
at my word and left me; and from that day to this I’ve 
never spoken a word to him, or set eyes on him ; though I’d 
fain have done so, to try and show him we had both been 
too hasty ; for he’d not been gone out of my sight above a 
minute before I knew I loved— far above my life,” said she, 
dropping her voice as she came to this second confession of 
the strength of her attachment. “ But, if the gentleman 

377 


Mary Barton 

asks me which I loved the best, I make answer, I was 
flattered by Mr. Carson, and pleased with his flattery ; but 
James Wilson I ” 

She covered her face with her hands, to hide the burning 
scarlet blushes, which even dyed her fingers. 

There was a little pause ; still, though her speech might 
inspire pity for the prisoner, it only strengthened the sup- 
position of his guilt. Presently the counsellor went on with 
his examination. 

“ But you have seen young Mr. Carson since your re- 
jection of the prisoner ? ” 

“ Yes, often.” 

“ You have spoken to him, I conclude, at these times.” 

“ Only once, to call speaking.” 

“And what was the substance of your conversation? 
Did you tell him you found you preferred his rival ? ” 

“No, sir. I don’t think as I’ve done wrong in saying, 
now as things stand, what my feelings are; but I never 
would be so bold as to tell one young man I cared for 
another. I never named Jem’s name to Mr. Carson. 
Never.” 

“ Then what did you say when you had this final con- 
versation with Mr. Carson ? You can give me the substance 
of it, if you don’t remember the ‘words.” 

“ I’ll try, sir ; but I’m not very clear. I told him I could 
not love him, and wished to have nothing more to do with 
him. He did his best to over-persuade me, but I kept 
steady, and at last I ran off.” 

“ And you never spoke to him again ? ” 

“ Never ! ” 

“ Now, young woman, remember you are upon your oath. 
Did you ever tell the prisoner at the bar of Mr. Henry 
Carson’s attentions to you ? of your acquaintance, in short ? 
Did you ever try to excite his jealousy by boasting of a 
lover so far above you in station ? ” 

“ Never. I never did,” said she, in so firm and distinct 
a manner as to leave no doubt. 

378 


“Not Guilty!” 

Were you aware that he knew of Mr. Henry Carson’s 
regard for you ? Bemember you are on your oath ! ” 

“ Never, sir. I was not aware until I heard of the 
quarrel between them, and what Jem had said to the police- 
man, and that was after the murder. To this day I can’t 
make out who told Jem. O sir, may not I go down ? ” 

For she felt the sense, the composure, the very bodily 
strength which she had compelled to her aid for a time, 
suddenly giving way, and was conscious that she was losing 
all command over herself. There was no occasion to detain 
her longer ; she had done her part. She might go down. 
The evidence was still stronger against the prisoner ; but 
now he stood erect and firm, with self-respect in his attitude, 
and a look of determination on his face, which almost made 
it appear noble. Yet he seemed lost in thought. 

Job Legh had all this time been trying to soothe and 
comfort Mrs. Wilson, who would first be in the court, in 
order to see her darling, and then, when her sobs became 
irrepressible, had to be led out into the open air, and sat 
there weeping, on the steps of the court-house. Who would 
have taken charge of Mary, on her release from the witness- 
box, I do not know, if Mrs. Sturgis, the boatman’s wife, had 
not been there, brought by her interest in Mary, towards 
whom she now pressed, in order to urge her to leave the 
scene of the trial. 

“ No ! no ! ” said Mary, to this proposition. “ I must be 
here. I must watch that they don’t hang him, you know 
I must.” 

“ Oh ! they’ll not hang him ! never fear ! Besides, the 
wind has changed, and that’s in his favour. Come away. 
You’re so hot, and first white and then red ; I’m sure you're 
ill. Just come away.” 

“ Oh ! 1 don’t know about an 3 rthing but that I must 
stay,” replied Mary, in a strange hurried manner, catching 
hold of some rails as if she feared some bodily force would 
be employed to remove her. So Mrs. Sturgis just waited 
patiently by her, every now and then peeping among the 

379 


Mary Barton 

congregation of heads in the body of the court, to see if her 
husband were still there. And there he always was to be 
seen, looking and listening with all his might. His wife 
felt easy that he would not be wanting her at home until 
the trial was ended. 

Mary never let go her clutched hold on the rails. She 
wanted them to steady her, in that heaving, whirling court. 
She thought the feeling of something hard compressed within 
her hand would help her to listen, for it was such pain, such 
weary pain in her head, to strive to attend to what was 
being said. They were all at sea, sailing away on billowy 
waves, and every one speaking at once, and no one heeding 
her father, who was calling on them to be silent, and listen 
to him. Then again, for a brief second, the court stood still, 
and she could see the judge, sitting up there like an idol, 
with his trappings, so rigid and stiff; and Jem, opposite, 
looking at her, as if to say. Am I to die for what you know 

your . Then she checked herself, and by a great struggle 

brought herself round to an instant’s sanity. But the round 
of thought never stood still; and off she went again; and 
every time her power of struggling against the growing 
delirium grew fainter and fainter. She muttered low to 
herself, but no one heard her except her neighbour, Mrs. 
Sturgis; all were too closely attending to the case for the 
prosecution, which was now being wound up. 

The counsel for the prisoner had avoided much cross- 
examination, reserving to himself the right of calling the 
witnesses forward again; for he had received so little, and 
such vague instructions, and understood that so much de- 
pended on the evidence of one who was not forthcoming, 
that in fact he had little hope of establishing anything hke 
a show of a defence, and contented himself with watching 
the case, and lying in wait for any legal objections that 
might offer themselves. He lay back on the seat, occa- 
sionally taking a pinch of snuff in a manner intended to be 
contemptuous; now and then elevating his eyebrows, and 
sometimes exchanging a little note with Mr. Bridgnorth 

380 


“Not Guilty!” 

behind him. The attorney had far more interest in the 
case than the barrister, to which he was perhaps excited by 
his poor old friend Job Legh ; who had edged and wedged 
himself through the crowd close to Mr. Bridgnorth’s elbow, 
sent thither by Ben Sturgis, to whom he had been “ intro- 
duced ” by Charley Jones, and who had accounted for Mary’s 
disappearance on the preceding day, and spoken of their 
chase, their fears, their hopes. 

All this was told in a few words to Mr. Bridgnorth — so 
few, that they gave him but a confused idea, that time was 
of value ; and this he named to his counsel, who now rose 
to speak for the defence. 

Job Legh looked about for Mary, now he had gained, 
and given, some idea of the position of things. At last he 
saw her, standing by a decent-looking woman, looking flushed 
and anxious, and moving her lips incessantly, as if eagerly 
talking ; her eyes never resting on any object, but wandering 
about as if in search of something. Job thought it was for 
him she was seeking, and he struggled to get round to her. 
When he had succeeded, she took no notice of him, although 
he spoke to her, but still kept looking round and round in 
the same wild, restless manner. He tried to hear the low 
quick mutterings of her voice, as he caught the repetition 
of the same words over and over again — 

“I must not go mad. I must not, indeed. They say 
people tell the truth when they’re mad ; but I don’t. I was 
always a liar. I was, 'indeed; but I’m not mad. I must 
not go mad. I must not, indeed.” 

Suddenly she seemed to become aware how earnestly 
Job was listening (with mournful attention) to her words, 
and turning sharp round upon him, with upbraiding for his 
eavesdropping on her lips, she caught sight of something — 
or some one — who, even in that state, had power to arrest 
her attention ; and throwing up her arms with wild energy, 
she shrieked aloud — 

“O Jem! Jem! you’re saved; and I am mad” 

and was instantly seized with convulsions. With much 

381 


Mary Barton 

commiseration, she was taken out of court, while the attention 
of many was diverted from her, by the fierce energy with 
which a sailor forced his way over rails and seats, against 
turnkeys and policemen. The officers of the court opposed 
this forcible manner of entrance, but they could hardly 
induce the offender to adopt any quieter way of attaining 
his object, and telling his tale in the witness-box, the legiti- 
mate place. For Will had dwelt so impatiently on the 
danger in which his absence would place his cousin, that 
even yet he seemed to fear that he might see the prisoner 
carried off, and hung, before he could pour out the narrative 
which would exculpate him. As for Job Legh, his feeUngs 
were all but imcontrollable ; as you may judge by the in- 
difference with which he saw Mary borne, stiff and convulsed, 
out of the court, in the charge of the kind Mrs. Sturgis, who, 
you will remember, was an utter stranger to him. 

“ She’ll keep ! I’ll not trouble myself about her,” said he 
to himself, as he wrote with trembling hands a little note of 
information to Mr. Bridgnorth, who had conjectured, when 
Will had first disturbed the awful tranquillity of the hfe-and- 
death court, that the witness had arrived (better late than 
never) on whose evidence rested all the slight chance yet 
remaining to Jem Wilson of escaping death. During the 
commotion in the court, among all the cries and commands, 
the dismay and the directions, consequent upon Will’s 
entrance, and poor Mary’s fearful attack of illness, Mr. 
Bridgnorth had kept his lawyer-like presence of mind ; and, 
long before Job Legh’s almost illegible note was poked at 
him, he had recapitulated the facts on which Will had to 
give evidence, and the manner in which he had been pursued, 
after his ship had taken her leave of the land. 

The barrister who defended Jem took new heart when he 
was put in possession of these striking points to be adduced, 
not so much out of earnestness to save the prisoner, of whose 
innocence he was still doubtful, as because he saw the oppor- 
tunities for the display of forensic eloquence which were 
presented by the facts ; “a gallant tar brought back from the 

382 


“Not Guilty!” 

pathless ocean by a girl’s noble daring,” “ the dangers of too 
hastily judging from circumstantial evidence,” &c. &c. ; while 
the counsellor for the prosecution prepared himself by folding 
his arms, elevating his eyebrows, and putting his lips in the 
form in which they might best whistle down the wind such 
evidence as might be produced by a suborned witness, who 
dared to perjure himself. For, of course, it is etiquette to 
suppose that such evidence as may be given against the 
opinion which lawyers are paid to uphold, is anything but 
based on truth; and “perjury,” “conspiracy,” and “peril of 
your immortal soul,” are light expressions to throw at the 
heads of those who may prove (not the speaker, there would 
then be some excuse for the hasty words of personal anger, 
but) the hirer of the speaker to be wrong, or mistaken. 

But when once Will had attained his end, and felt that 
his tale, or part of a tale, would be heard by judge and jury ; 
when once he saw Jem standing safe and well before him 
(even though he saw him pale and careworn at the felons’ 
bar), his courage took the shape of presence of mind, and he 
awaited the examination with a calm, unflinching intelligence, 
which dictated the clearest and most pertinent answers. He 
told the story you know so well : how, his leave of absence 
being nearly expired, he had resolved to fulfil his promise, 
and go to see an uncle residing in the Isle of Man ; how his 
money (sailor-like) was all expended in Manchester, and 
how, consequently, it had been necessary for him to walk to 
Liverpool, which he had accordingly done on the very night 
of the murder, accompanied as far as Hollins Green by his 
friend and cousin, the prisoner at the bar. He was clear 
and distinct in every corroborative ciicumstance, and gave a 
short account of the singular way in which he had been 
recalled from his outward-bound voyage, and the terrible 
anxiety he had felt, as the pilot-boat had struggled home 
against the wind. The jury felt that their opinion (so nearly 
decided half-an-hour ago) was shaken and disturbed in a 
very uncomfortable and perplexing way, and were almost 
grateful to the counsel for the prosecution, when he got up, 

383 


Mary Barton 

with a brow of thunder, to demolish the evidence, which was 
so bewildering when taken in connection with everythiijg 
previously adduced. But if such, without looking to the 
consequences, was the first impulsive feeling of some among 
the jury, how shall I describe the vehemence of passion 
which possessed the mind of poor Mr. Carson, as he saw 
the effect of the young sailor’s statement ? It never shook 
his belief in Jem’s guilt in the least, that attempt at an alibi ; 
his hatred, his longing for vengeance, having once defined an 
object to itself, could no more bear to be frustrated and dis- 
appointed, than the beast of prey can submit to have his 
victim taken from his hungry jaws. No more likeness to 
the calm stern power of Jupiter was there in that white 
eager face, almost distorted by its fell anxiety of expression. 

The counsel to whom etiquette assigned the cross- 
examination of Will, caught the look on Mr. Carson’s face, 
and in his desire to further the intense wish there mani- 
fested, he over- shot his mark even in his first insulting 
question — 

“ And now, my man, you’ve told the court a very good 
and very convincing story; no reasonable man ought to 
doubt the unstained innocence of your relation at the bar. 
Still there is one circumstance you have forgotten to name ; 
and I feel that without it your evidence is rather incomplete. 
Will you have the kindness to inform the gentlemen of the 
jury what has been your charge for repeating this very 
plausible story? How much good coin of Her Majesty’s 
realm have you received, or are you to receive, for walking 
up from the docks, or some less creditable place, and uttering 
the tale you have just now repeated, — very much to the 
credit of your instructor, I must say? Eemember, sir, you 
are upon oath.” 

It took Will a minute to extract the meaning from the 
garb of unaccustomed words in which it was invested, and 
during this time he looked a little confused. But the instant 
the truth flashed upon him he fixed his bright clear eyes, 
flaming with indignation, upon the counsellor, whose look 

384 


“Not Guilty!” 

fell at last before that stern unflinching gaze. Then, and 
not till then, Will made answer — 

“Will you tell the judge and jury how much money 
you’ve been paid for your impudence towards one who has 
told God’s blessed truth, and who would scorn to tell a lie, 
or blackguard any one, for the biggest fee as ever lawyer got 
for doing dirty work ? Will you tell, sir ? — But I’m ready, 
my lord judge, to take my oath as many times as your lord- 
ship or the jury would like, to testify to things having 
happened just as I said. There’s O’Brien, the pilot, in court 
now. Would somebody with a wig on please to ask him 
how much he can say for me ? ” 

It was a good idea, and caught at by the counsel for the 
defence. O’Brien gave just such testimony as was required 
to clear Will from all suspicion. He had witnessed the 
pursuit, he had heard the conversation which took place 
between the boat and the ship ; he had given Will a home- 
ward passage in his boat. And the character of an accredited 
pilot, appointed by the Trinity House, was known to be 
above suspicion. 

Mr. Carson sank back on his seat in sickening despair. 
He knew enough of courts to be aware of the extreme 
unwillingness of juries to con-^ict, even where the evidence 
is most clear, when the penalty of such conviction is death. 
At the period of the trial most condemnatory to the prisoner, 
he had repeated this fact to himself, in order to damp his too 
certain expectation of a conviction. Now it needed not 
repetition, for it forced itself upon his consciousness, and he 
seemed to IcTim, even before the jury retired to consult, that 
by some trick, some negligence, some miserable hocus-pocus, 
the murderer of his child, his darhng, his Absalom, who had 
never rebelled, — the slayer of his unburied boy ♦v ould slip 
through the fangs of justice, and walk free and unscathed 
over that earth where his son would never more be seen. 

It was even so. The prisoner hid his’ face once more to 
shield the expression of an emotion he could not control, 
from the notice of the over-curious ; Job Legh ceased his 

385 2 c 


Mary Barton 

eager talking to Mr. Bridgnorth ; Charley looked grave and 
earnest ; for the jury filed one by one back into their box, 
and the question was asked to which such an awful answer 
might be given. 

The verdict they had come to was unsatisfactory to them- 
selves at last ; neither being convinced of his innocence, nor 
yet quite willing to believe him guilty in the teeth of the 
alibi. But the punishment that awaited him, if guilty, was 
so terrible, and so unnatural a sentence for man to pronounce 
on man, that the knowledge of it had weighed down the 
scale on the side of innocence, and “Not Guilty ” was the 
verdict that thrilled through the breathless court. 

One moment of silence, and then the murmurs rose, as 
the verdict was discussed by all with lowered voice. Jem 
stood motionless, his head bowed ; poor fellow, he was stunned 
with the rapid career of events during the last few hours. 

He had assumed his place at the bar with little or no 
expectation of an acquittal ; and with scarcely any desire for 
life, in the complication of occurrences tending to strengthen 
the idea of Mary’s more than indifference to him ; she had 
loved another, and in her mind Jem believed that he himself 
must be regarded as the murderer of him she loved. And 
suddenly, athwart this gloom which made life seem such 
a blank expanse of desolation, there flashed the exquisite 
delight of hearing Mary’s avowal of love, making the future 
all glorious, if a future in this world he might hope to have. 
He could not dwell on anything but her words, telling of her 
passionate love ; all else was indistinct, nor could he strive 
to make it otherwise. She loved him. 

And life, now full of tender images, suddenly bright with 
all exquisite promises, hung on a breath, the slenderest 
gossamer chance. He tried to think that the knowledge of 
her love would soothe him even in his dying hours ; but the 
phantoms of what life with her might be, would obtrude, 
and made him almost gasp and reel under the uncertainty 
he was enduring. Will’s appearance had only added to the 
intensity of this suspense. 


386 


“Not Guilty!” 

The full meaning of the verdict could not at once 
penetrate his brain. He stood dizzy and motionless. Some 
one pulled his coat. He turned, and saw Job Legh, the 
tears stealing down his brown furrowed cheeks, while he 
tried in vain to command voice enough to speak. He kept 
shaking Jem by the hand, as the best and necessary ex- 
pression of his feeling. 

“ Here, make yourself scarce ! I should think you’d be 
glad to get out of that 1 ” exclaimed the gaoler, as he brought 
up another livid prisoner, from out whose eyes came the 
anxiety which he would not allow any other feature to 
display. 

Job Legh pressed out of court, and Jem followed, un- 
reasoningly. 

The crowd made way, and kept their garments tight 
about them, as Jem passed, for about him there still hung 
the taint of the murderer. 

He was in the open air, and free once more ! Although 
many looked on him with suspicion, faithful friends closed 
round him ; his arm was unresistingly pumped up and down 
by his cousin and Job ; when one was tired, the other took 
up the wholesome exercise, while Ben Sturgis was working 
off his interest in the scene by* scolding Charley for walking 
on his head round and round Mary’s sweetheart, for a sweet- 
heart he was now satisfactorily ascertained to be, in spite of 
her assertions to the contrary. And all this time Jem him- 
self felt bewildered and dazzled; he would have given 
anything for an hour’s uninterrupted thought on the occur- 
rences of the past week, and the new visions raised up 
during the morning; ay, even though that tranquil hour 
were to be passed in the hermitage of his quiet prison cell. 
The first question sobbed out by his choking voice, oppressed 
with emotion, was — 

“ Where is she ? ” 

They led him to the'room where his mother sat. They had 
told her of her son’s acquittal, and now she was laughing, 
and crying, and talking, and giving way to all those feelings 

387 


Mary Barton 

which she had restrained with such effort during the last few 
days. They brought her son to her, and she threw herself 
upon his neck, weeping there. He returned her embrace, 
but looked around, beyond. Excepting his mother, there 
was no one in the room but the friends who had entered 
with him. 

“ Eh, lad ! ” she said, when she found voice to speak. 
“ See what it is to have behaved thysel ! I could put in a 
good word for thee, and the jury could na go and hang thee 
in the face of th’ character I gave thee. Was na it a good 
thing they did na keep me from Liverpool ? But I would 
come; I knew I could do thee good, bless thee, my lad. 
But thou’rt very white, and all of a tremble.” 

He kissed her again and again, but looking round as if 
searching for some one he could not find, the first words. he 
uttered were still — 

“ Where is she ? ” 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

REQUIESCAT IN PACE 

“ Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun, 

Nor the furious winter’s rages ; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done. 

Home art gone and ta’en thy wages.” 

Cymbeline. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 

While joys above my mind can move 
For thee, and thee alone I live ; 

When that grim foe of joy below 
Gomes in between to make us part. 

The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss— it breaks my heart.” 

Burns. 

She was where no words of peace, no soothing hopeful 
tidings could reach her; in the ghastly spectral world of 

388 


Requiescat in Pace 

delirium. Hour after hour, day after day, she started up 
with passionate cries on her father to save Jem ; or rose 
wildly, imploring the winds and waves, the pitiless winds 
and waves, to have mercy; and over and over again she 
exhausted her feverish fitful strength in these agonised 
entreaties, and fell hack powerless, uttering only the wailing 
moans of despair. They told her Jem was safe, they brought 
him before her eyes ; but sight and hearing were no longer 
channels of information to that poor distracted brain, nor 
could human voice penetrate to her understanding. 

Jem alone gathered the full meaning of some of her 
strange sentences, and perceived that, by some means or 
other, she, like himself, had divined the truth of her father 
being the murderer. 

Long ago (reckoning time by events and thoughts, and 
not by clock or dial-plate), Jem had felt certain that Mary’s 
father was Harry Carson’s murderer; and, although the 
motive was in some measure a mystery, yet a whole train of 
circumstances (the principal of which was that John Barton 
had borrowed the fatal gun only two days before), had left 
no doubt in Jem’s mind. Sometimes he thought that John 
had discovered, and thus bloodily resented, the attentions 
which Mr. Carson had paid to his daughter; at others, he 
believed the motive to exist in the bitter feuds between the 
masters and their workpeople, in which Barton was known 
to take so keen an interest. But if he had felt himself 
pledged to preserve this secret, even when his own life was 
the probable penalty, and he believed he should fall exe- 
crated by Mary as the guilty destroyer of her lover, how 
much more was he bound now to labour to prevent any 
word of hers from inculpating her father, now that she was 
his own ; now that she had braved so much to rescue him ; 
and now that her poor brain had lost all guiding and con- 
trolling power over her words. 

All that night long Jem wandered up and down the 
narrow precincts of Ben Sturgis’s house. In the little 
bedroom where Mrs. Sturgis alternately tended Mary, and 

389 


Mary Barton 

wept over the violence of her illness, he listened to her 
ravings ; each sentence of which had its own peculiar mean- 
ing and reference, intelligihle to his mind, till her words rose 
to the wild pitch of agony that no one could alleviate, and 
he could bear it no longer, and stole, sick and miserable, 
downstairs, where Ben Sturgis thought it his duty to snore 
away in an arm-chair instead of his bed, under the idea that 
he should thus be more ready for active service, such as 
fetching the doctor to revisit his patient. 

Before it was fairly light, Jem (wide awake, and listening 
with an earnest attention he could not deaden, however 
painful its results proved) heard a gentle subdued knock at 
the house door; it was no business of his, to be sure, to 
open it, but, as Ben slept on, he thought he would see who 
the early visitor might be, and ascertain if there was any 
occasion for disturbing either host or hostess. It was Job 
Legh who stood there, distinct against the outer light of the 
street. 

“ How is she ? Eh ! poor soul ! is that her ? No need 
to ask ! How strange her voice sounds ! Screech ! screech ! 
and she so low, sweet-spoken, when she’s well ! Thou must 
keep up heart, old boy, and not look so dismal, thysel.” 

“ I can’t help it. Job ; it’s past a man’s bearing to hear 
such a one as she is, going on as she is doing ; even if I did 
not care for her, it would cut me sore to see one so young, 
and — I can’t speak of it, Job, as a man should do,” said 
Jem, his sobs choking him. 

“ Let me in, will you ? ” said Job, pushing past him, for 
all this time Jem had stood holding the door, unwilling to 
admit Job where he might hear so much that would be 
suggestive to one acquainted with the parties that Mary 
named. 

“ I’d more than one reason for coming betimes. I wanted 
to hear how yon poor wench was; that stood first. Late 
last night I got a letter from Margaret, very anxious-like. 
The doctor says the old lady yonder can’t last many days 
longer, and it seems so lonesome for her to die with no one 

390 


Requiescat in Pace 

but Margaret and Mrs. Davenport about her. So I thought 
I’d just come and stay with Mary Barton, and see as she’s 
well done to, and you and your mother and Will go and take 
leave of old Alice.” 

Jem’s countenance, sad at best just now, fell lower and 
lower. But Job went on with his speech. 

“ She still wanders, Margaret says, and thinks she’s with 
her mother at home ; but for all that, she should have some 
kith and kin near her to close her eyes, to my thinking.” 

Could not you and Will take mother home ? I’d 

follow when ” Jem faltered out thus far, when Job 

interrupted — 

“ Lad ! if thou knew what thy mother has suffered for 
thee, thou’d not speak of leaving her just when she’s got 
thee from the grave as it were. Why, this very night she 
roused me up, and ‘ Job,’ says she, ‘ I ask your pardon for 
wakening you, but tell me, am I awake or dreaming? Is 
Jem proved innocent ? Oh, Job Legh ! God send I’ve not 
been only dreaming it ! ’ For thou see’st she can’t rightly 
understand why thou’rt with Mary, and not with her. Ay, 
ay! I know why; but a mother only gives up her son’s 
heart inch by inch to his wife, and then she gives it up with 
a grudge. No, Jem! thou must go with thy mother just 
now, if ever thou hopest for God’s blessing. She’s a widow 
and has none but thee. Never fear for Mary! She’s 
young and will struggle through. They are decent people, 
these folk she is with, and I’ll watch o’er her as though she 
was my own poor girl, that lies cold enough in London 
town. I grant ye, it’s hard enough for her to be left among 
strangers. To my mind, John Barton would be more in the 
way of his duty, looking after his daughter, than delegating 
it up and down the country, looking after every one’s 
business but his own.” 

A new idea and a new fear came into Jem’s mind. What 
if Mary should implicate her father ? 

“She raves terribly,” said he. “All night long she’s 
been speaking of her father, and mixing up thoughts of him 

391 


Mary Barton 

with the trial she saw yesterday. I should not wonder if 
she’ll speak of him as being in court next thing.” 

“I should na wonder, either,” answered Job. “Folk in 
her way say many and many a strange thing ; and th’ best 
way is never to mind them. Now you take your mother 
home, Jem, and stay by her till old Alice is gone, and trust 
me for seeing to Mary.” 

Jem felt how right Job was, and could not resist what he 
knew to be his duty ; but I cannot tell you how heavy and 
sick at heart he was as he stood at the door to take a last 
fond, lingering look at Mary. He saw her sitting up in bed, 
her golden hair, dimmed with her one day’s illness, floating 
behind her, her head bound round with wetted cloths, her 
features all agitated, even to distortion, with the pangs of 
her anxiety. 

Her lover’s eyes filled with tears. He could not hope. 
The elasticity of his heart had been crushed out of him by 
early sorrows ; and now, especially, the dark side of every- 
thing seemed to be presented to him. What if she died, just 
when he knew the treasure, the untold treasure he possessed 
in her love ! What if (worse than death) she remained a 
poor gibbering maniac all her life long (and mad people do 
live to be old sometimes, even under all the pressure of their 
burden), terror- distracted as she was now, and no one able to 
comfort her I 

“ Jem,” said Job, partly guessing the other’s feelings by 
his own. “Jem!” repeated he, arresting his attention 
before he spoke. Jem turned round, the little motion 
causing the tears to overflow and trickle down his cheeks. 
“ Thou must trust in God, and leave her in His hands. He 
spoke hushed and low; but the words sank all the more 
into Jem’s heart, and gave him strength to tear himself 
away. 

He found his mother (notwithstanding that she had but 
just regained her child through Mary’s instrumentality) half 
inclined to resent his having passed the night in anxious 
devotion to the poor invalid. She dwelt on the duties of 

392 


Requiescat in Pace 

children to their parents (above all others), till Jem could 
hardly believe the relative positions they had held only 
yesterday, when she was struggling with and controlling 
every instinct of her nature, only because he wished it. 
However, the recollection of that yesterday, with its hair’s- 
breadth between him and a felon’s death, and the love that 
had lightened the dark shadow, made him bear with the 
meekness and patience of a true-hearted man all the worry- 
ing httle acerbities of to-day ; and he had no small merit in 
doing so ; for in him, as in his mother, the reaction after 
intense excitement had produced its usual effect in increased 
irritability of the nervous system. 

They found Alice alive, and without pain. And that was 
all. A child of a few weeks old would have had more bodily 
strength ; a child of a very few months old, more conscious- 
ness of what was passing before her. But even in this state 
she diffused an atmosphere of peace around her. True, 
Will, at first, wept passionate tears at the sight of her, who 
had been as a mother to him, so standing on the confines of 
hfe. But even now, as always, loud passionate feeling could 
not long endure in the calm of her presence. The firm faith 
which her mind had no longer power to grasp, had left its trail 
of glory ; for by no other word can I call the bright happy 
look which illumined the old earth-worn face. Her talk, it is 
true, bore no more than constant earnest reference to God 
and His holy word which it had done in health, and there 
were no deathbed words of exhortation from the lips of one 
so habitually pious. For still she imagined herself once 
again in the happy, happy realms of childhood ; and again 
dwelling in the lovely northern haunts where she had so 
often longed to be. Though earthly sight was gone away, 
she beheld again the scenes she had loved from long years 
ago ! she saw them without a change to dim the old radiant 
hues. The long dead were with her, fresh and blooming as 
in those bygone days. And death came to her as a welcome 
blessing, like as evening comes to the weary child. Her 
work here was finished, and faithfully done. 

393 


Mary Barton 

What better sentence can an emperor wish to have said 
over his bier ? In second childhood (that blessing clouded 
by a name), she said her “ Nunc Dimittis ” — the sweetest 
canticle to the holy. 

“ Mother, good-night ! Dear mother ! bless me once 
more! I’m very tired, and would fain go to sleep.” She 
never spoke again on this side heaven. 

She died the day after their return from Liverpool. 
From that time, Jem became aware that his mother was 
jealously watching for some word or sign which should 
betoken his wish to return to Mary. And yet go to Liver- 
pool he must and would, as soon as the funeral was over, if 
but for a simple glimpse of his darling. For Job had never 
written; indeed, any necessity for his so doing had never 
entered his head. If Mary died, he would announce it 
personally; if she recovered, he meant to bring her home 
with him. Writing was to him little more than an auxiliary 
to natural history; a way of ticketing specimens, not of 
expressing thoughts. 

The consequence of this want of intelligence as to Mary’s 
state was, that Jem was constantly anticipating that every 
person and every scrap of paper was to convey to him the 
news of her death. He could not endure this state long ; but 
he resolved not to disturb the house by announcing to his 
mother his purposed intention of returning to Liverpool, 
until the dead had been buried forth. 

On Sunday afternoon they laid her low with many tears. 
Will wept as one who would not be comforted. 

The old childish feeling came over him, the feeling of 
loneliness at being left among strangers. 

By-and-by, Margaret timidly stole near him, as if waiting 
to console; and soon his passion sank down to grief, and 
grief gave way to melancholy, and though he felt as if he 
never could be joyful again, he was all the while uncon- 
sciously approaching nearer to the full happiness of calling 
Margaret his own, and a golden thread was interwoven even 
now with the darkness of his sorrow. Yet it was on his arm 

394 


Requiescat in Pace 

that Jane Wilson leant on her return homewards. Jem took 
charge of Margaret. 

“ Margaret, I’m bound for Liverpool by the first train to- 
morrow ; I must set your grandfather at liberty.” 

“ I’m sure he likes nothing better than watching over 
poor Mary ; he loves her nearly as well as me. But let me 
go ! I have been so full of poor Alice, I’ve never thought of 
it before ; I can’t do so much as many a one, but Mary will 
like to have a woman about her that she knows. I’m sorry 
I waited to be reminded, Jem,” replied Margaret, with some 
little self-reproach. 

But Margaret’s proposition did not at all agree with her 
companion’s wishes. He found he had better speak out, 
and put his intention at once to the right motive; the 
subterfuge about setting Job Legh at liberty had done him 
harm instead of good. 

“ To tell truth, Margaret, it’s I that must go, and that for 
my own sake, not your grandfather’s. I can rest neither by 
night nor day for thinking on Mary. Whether she lives or 
dies, I look on her as my wife before God, as surely and 
solemnly as if we were married. So being, I have the 
greatest right to look after her, and I cannot yield it even 
to ” 

“ Her father,” said Margaret, finishing his interrupted 
sentence. “ It seems strange that a girl like her should be 
thrown on the bare world to struggle through so bad an 
illness. No one seems t@ know where John Barton is, else 
I thought of getting Morris to write him a letter teUing him 
about Mary. I wish he was home, that I do ! ” 

Jem could not echo this wish. 

“ Mary’s not bad off for friends where she is,” said he. 
“ I call them friends, though a week ago we none of us knew 
there were such folks in the world. But being anxious and 
sorrowful about the same thing makes people friends quicker 
than anything, I think. She’s like a mother to Mary in her 
ways ; and he bears a good character, as far as I could learn 
just in that hurry. We’re drawing near home, and I’ve not 

395 


Mary Barton 

said my say, Margaret. I want you to look after mother a 
bit. She’ll not like my going, and I’ve got to break it to her 
yet. If she takes it very badly. I’ll come back to-morrow 
night ; but if she’s not against it very much, I mean to stay 
till it’s settled about Mary, one way or the other. Will, you 
know, will be there, Margaret, to help a bit in doing for 
mother.” 

Will’s being there made the only objection Margaret saw 
to this plan. She disliked the idea of seeming to throw her- 
self in his way, and yet she did not like to say anything of 
this feeling to Jem, who had all along seemed perfectly un- 
conscious of any love-affair, besides his own, in progress. 

So Margaret gave a reluctant consent. 

“ If you can just step up to our house to-night, Jem, I’ll 
put up a few things as may be useful to Mary, and then you 
can say when you’ll likely be back. If you come home to- 
morrow night, and Will’s there, perhaps I need not step 
up ? ” 

“ Yes, Margaret, do ! I shan’t leave easy unless you go 
some time in the day to see mother. I’ll come to-night, 
though ; and now good-bye. Stay ! do you think you could 
just coax poor Will to walk a bit home with you, that I 
might speak to mother by myself ? ” 

No! that Margaret could not do. That was expecting 
too great a sacrifice of bashful feeling. 

But the object was accomphshed by Will’s going upstairs 
immediately on their return to the house, to indulge his 
mournful thoughts alone. As soon as Jem and his mother 
were left by themselves, he began on the subject uppermost 
in his mind. 

“ Mother I ” 

She put her handkerchief from her eyes, and turned 
quickly round so as to face him where he stood, thinking 
what best to say. The little action annoyed him, and he 
rushed at once into the subject. 

“ Mother 1 I am going back to Liverpool to-morrow 
morning to see how Mary Barton is.” 

396 


Requiescat in Pace 

“ And what’s Mary Barton to thee, that thou shouldst be 
running after her in that-a-way ? ” 

“ If she lives, she shall be my wedded wife. If she dies 
— mother, I can’t speak of what I shaU feel if she dies.” His 
voice was choked in his throat. 

For an instant his mother was interested by his words ; 
and then came back the old jealousy of being supplanted in 
the affections of that son, who had been, as it were, newly 
bom to her, by the escape he had so lately experienced from 
danger. So she hardened her heart against entertaining any 
feeling of sympathy ; and turned away from the face, which 
recalled the earnest look of his childhood, when he had come 
to her in some trouble, sure of help and comfort. 

And coldly she spoke, in those tones which Jem knew 
and dreaded, even before the meaning they expressed was 
fully shaped. 

“ Thou’rt old enough to please thysel. Old mothers are 
cast aside, and what they’ve borne forgotten as soon as a 
pretty face comes across. I might have thought of that last 
Tuesday, when I felt as if thou wert all my own, and the 
judge were some wild animal trying to rend thee from me. 
I spoke up for thee then; but it’s all forgotten now, I 
suppose.” 

“ Mother ! you know all this while, ym know I can never 
forget any kindness you’ve ever done for me; and they’ve 
been many. Why should you think I’ve only room for one 
love in my heart ? I can love you as dearly as ever, and 
Mary too, as much as man ever loved woman.” 

He awaited a reply. None was vouchsafed. 

“ Mother, answer me ! ” said he, at last. 

“ What mun I answer? You asked me no question.” 

“ Well ! I ask you this now. To-morrow morning I go 
to Liverpool to see her who is as my wife. Dear mother ! 
will you bless me on my errand? If it please God she 
recovers, will you take her to you as you would a daughter? ” 

She could neither refuse nor assent. 

“ Why need you go?” said she querulously,, g^.t length. 

397 


Mary Barton 

“ You’ll be getting in some mischief or another again. Can’t 
you stop at home quiet with me ? ” 

Jem got up, and walked about the room in despairing 
impatience. She would not understand his feelings. At 
last he stopped right before the place where she was sitting, 
with an air of injured meekness on her face. 

“ Mother ! I often think what a good man father was ! 
I’ve often heard you tell of your courting days ; and. of the 
accident that befell you, and how ill you were. How long 
is it ago ? ” 

“ Near upon five-and-twenty years,” said she, with a 
sigh. 

“ You Httle thought when you were so ill you should 
live to have such a fine strapping son as I am, did you 
now ? ” 

She smiled a little, and looked up at him, which was 
just what he wanted. 

“Thou’rt not so fine a man as thy father was, by a 
deal ; ” said she, looking at him with much fondness, not- 
withstanding her depreciatory words. 

He took another turn or two up and down the room. He 
wanted to bend the subject round to his own case. 

“ Those were happy days when father was alive ! ” 

‘ You may say so, lad ! Such days as will never come 
again to me, at any rate.” She sighed sorrowfully. 

“Mother!” said he at last, stopping short, and taking 
her hand in his with tender affection, “ you’d like me to be 
as happy a man as my father was before me, would not you ? 
You’d like me to have some one to make me as happy as 
you made father? Now, would not you, dear mother? ” 

“ I did not make him as happy as I might ha’ done,” 
murmured she, in a low sad voice of self-reproach. “ Th’ 
accident gave a jar to my temper it’s never got the better 
of; and now he’s gone, where he can never know how I 
grieve for having frabbed him as I did.” 

“Nay, mother, we don’t know that 1 ” said Jem, with 
gentle soothing. Anyhow, you and father got along with 

398 


Requiescat in Pace 

as few rubs as most people. But for his sake, dear mother, 
don’t say me nay, now that I come to you to ask your 
blessing before setting out to see her, who is to be my wife, 
if ever woman is; for his sake, if not for mine, love her 
whom I shall bring home to be to me all you were to him : 
and, mother! I do not ask for a truer or a tenderer heart 
than yours is, in the long run.” 

The hard look left her face ; though her eyes were still 
averted from Jem’s gaze, it was more because they were 
brimming over with tears, called forth by his words, than 
because any angry feeling yet remained. And T^en his 
manly voice died away in low pleadings, she lifted up her 
hands, and bent down her son’s head below the level of her 
own ; and then she solemnly uttered a blessing. 

“ God bless thee, Jem, my own dear lad. And may He 
bless Mary Barton for thy sake.” 

Jem’s heart leapt up, and from this time hope took the 
place of fear in his anticipations with regard to Mary. 

“Mother! you show your own true self to Mary, and 
she’ll love you as dearly as I do.” 

So with some few smiles, and some few tears, and much 
earnest talking, the evening wore away. 

“I must be off to see Margaret. Why, it’s near ten 
o’clock ! Could you have thought it ? Now don’t you stop 
up for me, mother. You and Will go to bed, for you’ve both 
need of it. I shall be home in an hour.” 

Margaret had felt the evening long and lonely ; and was 
all but giving up the thoughts of Jem’s coming that night, 
when she heard his step at the door. 

He told her of his progress with his mother ; he told her 
his hopes, and was silent on the subject of his fears. 

“ To think how sorrow and joy are mixed up together. 
You’ll date your start in hfe as Mary’s acknowledged lover 
from poor Alice Wilson’s burial day. Well! the dead are 
soon forgotten ! ” 

“ Dear Margaret ! But you’re worn-out with your long 
evening waiting for me. I don’t wonder. But never you, 

399 


Mary Barton 

nor any one else, think because God sees fit to call up new 
interests, perhaps right out of the grave, that therefore the 
dead are forgotten. Margaret, you yourself can remember 
our looks, and fancy what We’re hke.” 

“ Yes ! but what has that to do with remembering 
Alice ! ” 

“ Why, just this. You’re not always trying to think on 
our faces, and making a labour of remembering ; but often. 
I’ll be bound, when you’re sinking off to sleep, or when 
you’re very quiet and still, the faces you knew so well when 
you could see, come smiling before you with loving looks. 
Or you remember them, without striving after it, and with- 
out thinking it’s your duty to keep recalling them. And so 
it is with them that are hidden from our sight. If they’ve 
been worthy to be heartily loved while alive, they’ll not be 
forgotten when dead ; it’s against nature. And we need no 
more be upbraiding ourselves for letting in God’s rays of 
light upon our sorrow, and no more be fearful of forgetting 
them, because their memory is not always haunting and taking 
up our minds, than you need to trouble yourself about re- 
membering your grandfather’s face, or what the stars were 
like, — you can’t forget if you would, what it’s such a pleasure 
to think about. Don’t fear my forgetting Aunt Alice.” 

“I’m not, Jem; not now, at least; only you seemed so 
full about Mary.” 

“ I’ve kept it down so long, remember. How glad Aunt 
Alice would have been to know that I might hope to have her 
for my wife ! that is to say, if God spares her ! ” 

“ She would not have known it, even if you could have 
told her this last fortnight, — ever since you went away 
she’s been thinking always that she was a little child at 
her mother’s apron-string. She must have been a happy 
little thing ; it was such a pleasure to her to think about 
those early days, when she lay old and grey on her death- 
bed.” 

“I never knew any one seem more happy all her life 
long.” 


400 


Requiescat in Pace 

“ Ay ! and how gentle and easy her death was ! She 
thought her mother was near her.” 

They fell into calm thought about those last peaceful, 
happy hours. 

It struck eleven. Jem started up. 

“ I should have been gone long ago. Give me the bundle. 
You’ll not forget my mother. Good-night, Margaret.” 

She let him out and bolted the door behind him. He 
stood on the steps to adjust some fastening about the bundle. 
The court, the street, was deeply still. Long ago all had 
retired to rest on that quiet Sabbath evening. The stars 
shone down on the silent deserted streets, and the clear soft 
moonlight fell in bright masses, leaving the steps on which 
Jem stood in shadow. 

A footfall was heard along the pavement ; slow and heavy 
was the sound. Before Jem had ended his little piece of 
business, a form had glided into sight ; a wan, feeble figure, 
bearing with evident and painful labour a jug of water from 
the neighbouring pump. It went before Jem, turned up the 
court at the comer of which he was standing, passed into 
the broad, calm light ; and there, with bowed head, sinking 
and shrunk body, Jem recognised John Barton. 

No haunting ghost could have had less of the energy of 
life in its involuntary motions than he, who, nevertheless, 
went on with the same measured clockwork tread until the 
door of his own house was reached. And then he disappeared, 
and the latch fell feebly to, and made a faint and wavering 
sound, breaking the solemn silence of the night. Then all 
again was still. For a minute or two Jem stood motionless, 
stunned by the thoughts which the sight of Mary’s father 
had called up. 

Margaret did not know he was at home ; had he stolen 
like a thief by dead of night into his own dwelling ? De- 
pressed as Jem had often and long seen him, this night there 
was something different about him still; beaten down by 
some inward storm, he seemed to grovel along, all self* 
respect lost and gone. 


401 


2 D 


Mary Barton 

Must he be told of Mary’s state ? Jem felt he must not ; 
and this for many reasons. He could not be informed of 
her illpess without many other particulars being communi- 
cated at the same time, of which it were better he should be 
kept in ignorance ; indeed, of which Mary herself could alone 
give the full explanation. No suspicion that he was the 
criminal seemed hitherto to have been excited in the mind of 
any one. Added to these reasons was Jem’s extreme un- 
willingness to face him, with the belief in his breast that he, 
and none other, had done the fearful deed. 

It was true that he was Mary’s father, and as such had 
every right to be told of all concerning her ; but, supposing he 
were, and that he followed the impulse so natural to a father, 
and wished to go to her, what might be the consequences ? 
Among the mingled feelings she had revealed in her delirium, 
ay, mingled even with the most tender expressions of love 
for her father, was a sort of horror of him ; a dread of him 
as a blood-shedder, which seemed to separate him into two 
persons, — one, the father who had dandled her on his knee, 
and loved her all her life long ; the other, the assassin, the 
cause of all her trouble and woe. 

If he presented himself before her while this idea of his 
character was uppermost, who might tell the consequence ? 

Jem could not, and would not, expose her to any such 
fearful chance ; and, to tell the truth, I believe he looked 
upon her as more his own, to guard from all shadow of injury 
with most loving care, than as belonging to any one else in 
this world, though girt with the reverend name of Father, and 
guiltless of aught that might have lessened such reverence. 

If you think this account of mine confused, of the half- 
feelings, half-reasons, which passed through Jem’s mind, as 
he stood gazing on the empty space, where that crushed 
form had so lately been seen, — if you are perplexed to dis- 
entangle the real motives : I do assure you it was from just 
such an involved set of thoughts that Jem drew the resolution 
to act as if he had not seen that phantom likeness of John 
Barton — himself, yet not himself. 

402 


The Return Home 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

THE RETURN HOME 

“ Dixwcll. Forgiveness 1 Oh, forgiveness, and a grave ! 

Mary. God knows thy heart, my father t and I shudd* 

To think what thou perchance hast acted. 

Dixwell. Oh 1 

Mary. No common load of woe is thine, my father.” 

Elliot’s “ELerhonah.” 

Mary still hovered between life and death when Jem arrived 
at the house where she lay ; and the doctors were as yet un- 
willing to compromise their wisdom by allowing too much 
hope to be entertained. But the state of things, if not less 
anxious, was less distressing than when Jem had quitted her. 
She lay now in a stupor, which was partly disease, and 
partly exhaustion after the previous excitement. 

And now Jem found the difficulty which every one who 
has watched by a sick-bed knows full well ; and which is 
perhaps more insurmountable to men than it is to women, — 
the difficulty of being patient, and trying not to expect any 
visible change for long, long hours of sad monotony. 

But after awhile the reward came. The laboured breath- 
ing became lower and softer, the heavy look of oppressive 
pain melted away from the face, and a languor that was 
almost peace took the place of suffering. She slept a natural 
sleep ; and they stole about on tiptoe, and spoke low, and 
softly, and hardly dared to breathe, however much they 
longed to sigh out their thankful relief. 

She opened her eyes. Her mind was in the tender state 
of a lately born infant’s. She was pleased with the gay but 
not dazzling colours of the paper ; soothed by the subdued 
light; and quite sufficiently amused by looking at all the 
objects in the room — the drawing of the ^hips, the festoons 
of the curtain, the bright flowers on the painted backs of 
the chairs — nor to care for any stronger excitement. She 

403 


Mary Barton 

wondered at the ball of glass, containing various coloured 
sands from the Isle of Wight, or some other place, which 
hung suspended from the middle of the little valance over the 
window. But she did not care to exert herself to ask any ques- 
tions, although she saw Mrs. Sturgis standing at the bedside 
with some tea, ready to drop it into her mouth by spoonfuls. 

She did not see the face of honest joy, of earnest thank- 
fulness, — the clasped hands, — the beaming eyes, — the tremb- 
ling eagerness of gesture, of one who had long awaited her 
wakening, and who now stood behind the curtains watch- 
ing through some little chink her every faint motion ; or, if 
she had caught a ghmpse of that loving, peeping face, she 
was in too e:^austed a state to have taken much notice, or 
have long retained the impression that he she loved so well 
was hanging about her, and blessing God for every conscious 
look which stole over her countenance. 

She fell softly into slumber, without a word having been 
spoken by any one during that half-hour of inexpressible 
joy. And again the stillness was enforced by sign and 
whispered word, but with eyes that beamed out their bright 
thoughts of hope. J em sat by the side of the bed, holding 
back the httle curtain, and gazing as if he could never gaze 
his fill at the pale, wasted face, so marbled and so chiselled 
in its wan outline. 

She wakened once more ; her soft eyes opened, and met 
his over-bending look. She smiled gently, as a baby does 
when it sees its mother tending its httle cot ; and continued 
her innocent, infantine gaze into his face, as if the sight 
gave her much unconscious pleasure. But by-and-by a 
different expression came into her sweet eyes, a look of 
memory and inteUigence; her white flesh flushed the 
brightest rosy red, and with feeble motion she tried to hide 
her head in the pillow. 

It required all Jem’s self-control to do what he knew and 
felt to be necessary, to call Mrs. Sturgis, who was quietly 
dozing by the fireside ; and, that done, he felt almost obliged 
to leave the room to keep down the happy agitation which 

404 


The Return Home 

would gush out in every feature, every gesture, and every 
tone. 

From that time forward, Mary’s progress towards health 
was rapid. 

There was every reason, but one, in favour of her speedy 
removal home. All Jem’s duties lay in Manchester. It was 
his mother’s dwelhng-place, and there his plans for life had 
been to be worked out : plans, which the suspicion and 
imprisonment he had fallen into, had thrown for a time into 
a chaos, which his presence was required to arrange into 
form. For he might find, in spite of a jury’s verdict, that 
too strong a taint was on his character for him ever to labour 
in Manchester again. He remembered the manner in which 
some one suspected of having been a convict was shunned 
by masters and men, when he had accidentally met with work 
in their foundry ; the recollection smote him now, how he 
himself had thought it did not become an honest upright 
man to associate with one who had been a prisoner. He 
could not choose but think on that poor humble being, with 
his downcast conscious look; ^hunted out of the workshop, 
where he had sought to earn an honest livelihood, by the 
looks, and half-spoken words, and the black silence of 
repugnance (worse than words to bear), that met him on all 
sides. 

Jem felt that his own character had been attainted ; and 
that to many it might still appear suspicious. He knew that 
he could convince the world, by a future as blameless as his 
past had been, that he was innocent. But at the same time 
he saw that he must have patience, and nerve himself for 
some trials; and the sooner these were undergone, the 
sooner he was aware of the place he held in men’s estimation, 
the better. He longed to have presented himself once more 
at the foundry ; and then the reality would drive away the 
pictures that would (unbidden) come, of a shunned man, 
eyed askance by all, and driven forth to shape out some new 
career. 

I said every reason “ but one ” inclined Jem to hasten 

405 


Mary Barton 

Mary’s return as soon as she was sufficiently convalescent. 
That one was the meeting which awaited her at home. 

Turn it over as Jem would, he could not decide what was 
the best course to pursue. He could compel himself to any 
line of conduct that his reason and his sense of right told him 
to be desirable ; but they did not tell him it was desirable to 
speak to Mary, in her tender state of mind and body, of her 
father. How much would be implied by the mere mention 
of his name ! Speak it as calmly, and as indifferently as he 
might, he could not avoid expressing some consciousness of 
the terrible knowledge she possessed. 

She, for her part, was softer and gentler than she had 
even been in her gentlest mood; since her illness, her 
motions, her glances, her voice were all tender in their 
languor. It seemed almost a trouble to her to break the 
silence with the low sounds of her own sweet voice, and her 
words fell sparingly on Jem’s greedy, listening ear. 

Her face was, however, so full of love and confidence, 
that Jem felt no uneasiness at the state of silent abstraction 
into which she often fell. If she did but love him, all would 
yet go right ; and it was better not to press for confidence 
on that one subject which must be painful to both. 

There came a fine, bright, balmy day. And Mary 
tottered once more out into the open air, leaning on Jem’s 
arm, and close to his beating heart. And Mrs. Sturgis 
watched them from her door, with a blessing on her lips, as 
they went slowly up the street. 

They came in sight of the river. Mary shuddered. 

“ Oh Jem ! take me home. Yon river seems all made of 
glittering, heaving, dazzling metal, just as it did when I 
began to be ill.” 

Jem led her homewards. She dropped her head as 
searching for something on the ground. 

“ Jem ! ” He was all attention. She paused for an 
instant. “ When may I go home ? To Manchester, I 
mean. I am so weary of this place ; and I would fain be at 
home.” 


406 


The Return Home 

She spoke in a feeble voice; not at all impatiently, as 
the words themselves would seem to intimate, but in a 
mournful way, as if anticipating sorrow even in the very 
fulfilment of her wishes. 

“ Darling ! we will go whenever you wish ; whenever you 
feel strong enough. I asked Job to tell Margaret to get all 
in readiness for you to go there at first. She’ll tend you and 
nurse you. You must not go home. Job proffered for you 
to go there.” 

“ Ah 1 but I must go home, Jem. I’ll try and not fail 
now in what’s right. There are things we must not speak 
on ” (lowering her voice), “ but you’ll be really kind if you’ll 
not speak against my going home. Let us say no more 
about it, dear Jem. I must go home, and I must go alone.” 

“Not alone, Mary ! ” 

“ Yes, alone ! I cannot tell you why I ask it. And if 
you guess, I know you well enough to be sure you’ll under- 
stand why I ask you never to speak on that again to me, till 
I begin. Promise, dear Jem, promise ! ” 

He promised ; to gratify that beseeching face, he promised. 
And then he repented, and felt as if he had done ill. Then 
again he felt as if she were the best judge, and, knowing all 
(perhaps more than even he did), might be forming plans 
which his interference would mar. 

One thing was certain ! it was a miserable thing to have 
this awful forbidden ground of discourse; to guess at each 
other’s thoughts, when eyes were averted, and cheeks 
blanched, and words stood still, arrested in their flow by 
some casual allusion. 

At last a day, fine enough for Mary to travel on, arrived. 
She had wished to go, but now her courage failed her. How 
could she have said she was weary of that quiet house, where 
even Ben Sturgis’s grumblings only made a kind of harmonious 
bass in the concord between him and his wife, so thoroughly 
did they know each other with the knowledge of many years ! 
How could she have longed to quit that little peaceful room, 
where she had experienced such loving tendence ! Even the 

407 


Mary Barton 

very check bed-curtains became dear to her under the idea of 
seeing them no more. If it was so with inanimate objects, 
if they had such power of exciting regret, what were her 
feelings with regard to the kind old couple, who had taken 
the stranger in, and cared for her, and nursed her, as though 
she had been a daughter ? Each wilful sentence spoken in 
the half-unconscious irritation of feebleness came now with 
avenging self-reproach to her memory, as she hung about 
Mrs. Sturgis, with many tears, which served instead of words 
to express her gratitude and love. 

Ben bustled about with the square bottle of Golden wasser 
in one of his hands, and a small tumbler in the other; he 
went to Mary, Jem, and his wife in succession, pouring out 
a glass for each, and bidding them drink it to keep their 
spirits up ; but, as each severally refused, he drank it himself ; 
and passed on to offer the same hospitality to another, with 
the hke refusal, and the like result. 

When he had swallowed the last of the three draughts, 
he condescended to give his reasons for having done so. 

“ I cannot abide waste. What’s poured out mun be 
drunk. That’s my maxim.” So saying, he replaced the 
bottle in the cupboard. 

It was he who,- in a firm commanding voice, at last told 
Jem and Mary to be off, or they would be too late. Mrs. 
Sturgis had kept up till then ; but as they left her house, she 
could no longer restrain her tears, and cried aloud in spite of 
her husband’s upbraiding. 

“ Perhaps they’ll be too late for the train ! ” ex- 
claimed she, with a degree of hope, as the clock struck 
two. 

“ What ! and come back again ! No ! no ! that would 
never do. We’ve done our part, and cried our cry; it’s no 
use going over the same ground again. I should ha’ to give 
’em more out of yon bottle when next parting time came, 
and them three glasses, they ha’ made a hole in the stuff, 
I can tell you. Time Jack was back from Hamburgh with 
some more.” 


408 


The Return Home 

When they reached Manchester, Mary looked very white, 
and the expression of her face was almost stern. She was 
in fact summoning up her resolution to meet her father if he 
were at home. Jem had never named his midnight glimpse 
of John Barton to human being: but Mary had a sort of 
presentiment, that, wander where he would, he would seek 
his home at last. But in what mood she dreaded to think. 
For the knowledge of her father’s capability of guilt seemed 
to have opened a dark gulf in his character, into the depths 
of which she trembled to look. At one moment she would 
fain have claimed protection against the life she must lead, 
for some time at least, alone with a murderer ! She thought 
of his gloom, before his mind was haunted by the memory of 
so terrible a crime ; his moody, irritable ways. She imagined 
the evenings as of old ; she, toiling at some work, long after 
houses were shut, and folks abed ; he, more savage than he 
had ever been before with the inward gnawing of his remorse. 
At such times she could have cried aloud with terror, at the 
scenes her fancy conjured up. 

But her fihal duty, nay, her love and gratitude for many 
deeds of kindness done to her as a little child, conquered all 
fear. She would endure all imaginable terrors, although 
of daily occurrence. And she would patiently bear all 
wajrward violence of temper ; more than patiently would she 
bear it — pitifully, as one who knew of some awful curse 
awaiting the blood-shedder. She would watch over him 
tenderly, as the Innocent should watch over the Guilty; 
awaiting the gracious seasons, wherein to pour oil and balm 
into the bitter wounds. 

With the untroubled peace which the resolve to endure to 
the end gives, she approached the house that from habit she 
still called home, but which possessed the holiness of home 
no longer. 

“ Jem ! ” said she, as they stood at the entrance to the 
court, close by Job Legh’s door, “ you must go in there and 
wait half-an-hour. Not less. If in that time I don’t come 
back, you go your ways to your mother. Give her my dear 

409 


Mary Barton 

love. I will send by Margaret when I want to see you.’* 
She sighed heavily. 

“ Mary ! Mary ! I cannot leave you. You speak as 
coldly as if we were to be nought to each other. And my 
heart’s bound up in you. I know why you bid me keep 
away, but ” 

She put her hand on his arm, as he spoke in a loud 
agitated tone ; she looked into his face with upbraiding love 
in her eyes, and then she said, while her lips quivered, and 
he felt her whole frame trembling — 

“ Dear Jem ! I often could have told you more of love, if 
I had not once spoken out so free. Eemember that time, 
Jem, if ever you think me cold. Then, the love that’s in my 
heart would out in words; but now, though I’m silent on 
the pain I’m feeling in quitting you, the love is in my heart 
all the same. But this is not the time to speak on such 
things. If I do not do what I feel to he right now, I may 
blame myself all my life long ! Jem, you promised ” 

And so saying she left him. She went quicker than she 
would otherwise have passed over those few yards of ground, 
for fear he should still try to accompany her. Her hand 
was on the latch, and in a breath the door was opened. 

There sat her father, still and motionless — not even 
turning his head to see who had entered ; but perhaps he 
recognised the footstep, — the trick of action. 

He sat by the fire ; the grate, I should say, for fire 
there was none. Some dull, grey ashes, negligently left, 
long days ago, coldly choked up the bars. He had taken 
the accustomed seat from mere force of habit, which ruled 
his automaton body. For all energy, both physical and 
mental, seemed to have retreated inwards to some of the 
great citadels of life, there to do battle against the Destroyer, 
Conscience. 

His hands were crossed, his fingers interlaced ; usually a 
position implying some degree of resolution, or strength ; but 
in him it was so faintly maintained, that it appeared more the 
result of chance; an attitude requiring some application of 

4TO 


The Return Home 

outward force to alter — and a blow with a straw seemed as 
though it would be sufficient. 

And as for his face, it was sunk and worn — like a skull, 
with yet a suffering expression that skulls have not ! Your 
heart would have ached to have seen the man, however, 
hardly you might have judged his crime. 

But crime and all was forgotten by his daughter, as she 
saw his abashed look, his smitten helplessness. All along 
she had felt it difficult (as I may have said before) to 
reconcile the two ideas, of her father and a blood-shedder. 
But now it was impossible. He was her father! her own 
dear father! and in his sufferings, whatever their cause, 
more dearly loved than ever before. His crime was a thing 
apart, never more to be considered by her. 

And tenderly did she treat him, and fondly did she serve 
him in every way that heart could devise, or hand execute. 

She had some money about her, the price of her stra-nge 
services as a witness ; and when the lingering dusk grew on 
she stole out to effect some purchases necessary for her 
father’s comfort. 

For how body and soul had been kept together, even 
as much as they were, during the days he had dwelt alone, 
no one can say. The house was bare as when Mary had 
left it, of coal, or of candle, of food, or of blessing in any 
shape. 

She came quickly home ; but as she passed Job Legh’s 
door, she stopped. Doubtless Jem had long since gone; 
and doubtless, too, he had given Margaret some good reason 
for not intruding upon her friend for this night at least, 
otherwise Mary would have seen her before now. 

But to-morrow, — would she not come in to-morrow? 
And who so quick as blind Margaret in noticing tones, and 
sighs, and even silence ? 

She did not give herself time for further thought, her 
desire to be once more with her father was too pressing; 
but she opened the door, before she well knew what to 
say. 


Mary Barton 

“ It’s Mary Barton ! I know her by her breathing ! 
Grandfather, it’s Mary Barton ! ” 

Margaret’s joy at meeting her, the open demonstration 
of her love, affected Mary much ; she could not keep from 
crying, and sat down weak arid agitated on the first chair 
she could find. 

“ Ay, ay, Mary ! thou’rt looking a bit different to when I 
saw thee last. Thou’lt give Jem and me good characters 
for sick nurses, I trust. If all trades fail. I’ll turn to that. 
Jem’s place is for life, I reckon. Nay, never redden so, lass. 
You and he know each other’s minds by this time ! ” 

Margaret held her hand, and gently smiled into her face. 

Job Legh took the candle up, and began a leisurely 
inspection. 

“ Thou hast gotten a bit of pink in thy cheeks, — not 
much ; but when last I see thee, thy bps were as white as 
a sheet. Thy nose is sharpish at th’ end ; thou’rt more like 
thy father than ever thou wert before. Lord ! child, what’s 
the matter ? Art thou going to faint ? ” 

For Mary had sickened at the mention of that name ; 
yet she felt that now or never was the time to speak. 

“ Father’s come home ! ” she said, “ but he’s very poorly ; 
I never saw him as he is now before. I asked Jem not to 
come near him for fear it might fidget him.” 

She spoke hastily, and (to her own idea) in an unnatural 
manner. But they did not seem to notice it, nor to take the 
hint she had thrown out of company being unacceptable; 
for Job Legh directly put down some insect, which he was 
impaling on a corking-pin, and exclaimed — 

“ Thy father come home ! Why, Jem never said a word 
of it ! And ailing too ! I’ll go in, and cheer him with a bit 
of talk. I never knew any good come of delegating it.” 

“ O Job ! father cannot stand — father is too ill. Don’t 
come ; not but that you’re very kind and good ; but to-night 
— indeed,” said she at last, in despair, seeing Job still 
persevere in putting away his things ; “ you must not come 
till I send or come for you. Father’s in that strange way, 

412 


The Return Home 

I can’t answer for it if he sees strangers. Please .don’t 
come. I’ll come and tell you every day how he goes on. I 
must be off now to see after him. Dear Job ! kind Job ! 
don’t be angry with me. If you knew all, you’d pity me.” 

For Job was muttering away in high dudgeon, and even 
Margaret’s tone was altered as she wished Mary good-night. 
Just then she could ill brook coldness from any one, and 
least of all bear the idea of being considered ungrateful by so 
kind and zealous a friend as Job had been ; so she turned 
round suddenly, even when her hand was on the latch of the 
door, and ran back, and threw her arms about his neck, and 
kissed him first, and then Margaret. And then, the tears 
fast falling down her cheeks, but no word spoken, she hastily 
left the house, and went back to her home. 

There was no change in her father’s position, or in his 
spectral look. He had answered her questions (but few in 
number, for so many subjects were unapproachable) by 
monosyllables, and in a weak, high, childish voice ; but he 
had not lifted his eyes ; he could not meet his daughter’s 
look. And she, when she spoke, or as she moved about, 
avoided letting her eyes rest upon him. She wished to be 
her usual self; but, while everything was done with a 
consciousness of purpose, she felt it was impossible. 

In this manner things went on for some days. At night 
he feebly clambered upstairs to bed ; and during those long 
dark hours Mary heard those groans of agony which never 
escaped his lips by day, when they were compressed in 
silence over his inward woe. 

Many a time she sat up listening, and wondering if it 
would ease his miserable heart if she went to him, and told 
him she knew all, and loved and pitied him more than words 
could tell. 

By day the monotonous hours wore on in the same 
heavy, hushed manner as on that first dreary afternoon. 
He ate, — but without relish ; and food seemed no longer to 
nourish him, for each morning his face caught more of the 
ghastly foreshadowing of Death. 

413 


Mary Barton 

The neighbours kept strangely aloof. Of late years John 
Barton had had a repellent power about him, felt by all, 
except to the few who had either known him in his better 
and happier days, or those to whom he had given his 
sympathy and his confidence. People did not care to enter 
the doors of one whose very depth of thoughtfulness rendered 
him moody and stem. And now they contented themselves 
with a kind inquiry when they saw Mary in her goings-out 
or in her comings-in. With her oppressing knowledge, she 
imagined their reserved conduct stranger than it was in 
reality. She missed Job and Margaret too; who, in all 
former times of sorrow or anxiety since their acquaintance 
first began, had been ready with their sympathy. 

But most of all she] missed the delicious luxury she had 
lately enjoyed in having Jem’s tender love at hand every 
hour of the day, to ward off every wind of heaven, and every 
disturbing thought. 

She knew he was often hovering about the house; 
though the knowledge seemed to come more by intuition, 
than by any positive sight or sound for the day or two. On 
the third day she met him at Job Legh’s. 

They received her with every effort of cordiality ; but 
still there was a cobweb-veil of separation between them, to 
which Mary was morbidly acute; while in Jem’s voice, and 
eyes, and manner, there was every evidence of most passion- 
ate, most admiring, and most trusting love. The trust was 
shown by his respectful silence on that one point of reserve 
on which she had interdicted conversation. 

He left Job Legh’s house when she did. They lingered 
on the step, he holding her hand between both of his, as 
loth to let her go ; he questioned her as to when he should 
see her again. 

“ Mother does so want to see you,” whispered he. “ Can 
you come to see her to-morrow ; or when ? ” 

“I cannot tell,” replied she softly. “Not yet. Wait 
awhile ; perhaps only a little while. Dear Jem, I must go 
to him,— dearest Jem.” 


414 


The Return Home 

The next day, the fourth from Mary’s return home, as 
she was sitting near the window, sadly dreaming over some 
work, she caught a glimpse of the last person she wished to 
see — of Sally Leadbitter ! 

She was evidently coming to their house; another 
moment, and she tapped at the door. John Barton gave an 
anxious, uneasy side-glance. Mary knew that if she delayed 
answering the knock, Sally would not scruple to enter; so 
as hastily as if the visit had been desired, she opened the 
door, and stood there with the latch in her hand, barring up 
all entrance, and as much as possible obstructing all curious 
glances into the interior. 

“ Well, Mary Barton ! You’re home at last ! I heard 
you’d gotten home ; so I thought I’d just step over and hear 
the news.” 

She was bent on coming in, and saw Mary’s preventive 
design. So she stood on tiptoe, looking over Mary’s shoulders 
into the room where she suspected a lover to be lurking; 
but, instead, she saw only the figure of the stern gloomy 
father she had always been in the habit of avoiding; and 
she dropped down again, content to carry on ' the con- 
versation where Mary chose, and as Mary chose, in 
whispers. 

“ So the old governor is back again, eh ? And what does 
he 'say to all your fine doings at Liverpool, and before ? — 
you and I know where. You can’t hide it now, Mary, for 
it’s all in print.” 

Mary gave a low moan, — and then implored Sally to change 
the subject; for, unpleasant as it always was, it was doubly 
unpleasant in the manner in which she was treating it. If 
they had been alone Mary would have home it patiently, — 
or so she thought,— but now she felt almost certain her 
father was listening : there was a subdued breathing, a slight 
bracing-up of the listless attitude. But there was no arrest- 
ing Sally’s curiosity to hear all she could respecting the 
adventures Mary had experienced. She, in common with 
the rest of Miss Simmonds’ young ladies, was almost jealous 

415 


Mary Barton 

of the fame that Mary had obtained ; to herself, such miser- 
able notoriety. 

“Nay! there’s no use shunning talking it over. Why! 
it was in the Gmrdian, — and the Courier, — and some one told 
Jane Hodgson it was even copied into a London paper. 
You’ve set up heroine on your own account, Mary Barton. 
How did you like standing witness ? Ar’n’t them lawyers 
impudent things? staring at one so. I’ll be bound you 
wished you’d taken my offer, and borrowed my black watered 
scarf ! Now didn’t you, Mary? Speak truth ! ” 

“ To tell truth, I never thought about it, then, Sally. 
How could I ? ” asked she reproachfully. 

“ Oh — I forgot. You were all for that stupid James 
Wilson. “Well! if I’ve ever the luck to go witness on a 
trial, see if I don’t pick up a better beau than the prisoner. 
I’ll aim at a lawyer’s clerk, but I’ll not take less than a 
turnkey.” 

Cast down as Mary was, she could hardly keep from 
smiling at the idea, so wildly incongruous with the scene she 
had really undergone, of looking out for admirers during a 
trial for murder. 

“ I’d no thought to be looking out for beaux, I can assure 
you, Sally. But don’t let us talk any more about it ; I can’t 
bear to think on it. How is Miss Simmonds ? and every- 
body ? ” 

“Oh, very well ; and by the way, she gave me a bit of 
a message for you. You may come back to work if you’ll 
behave yourself, she says. I told you she’d be glad to have 
you back, after all this piece of business, by way of tempting 
people to come to her shop. They’d come from Salford to 
have a peep at you, for six months at least.” 

“ Don’t talk so ; I cannot come, I can never face Miss 

Simmonds again. And even if I could ” She stopped, 

and blushed. 

“ Ay ! I know what you are thinking on. But that will 

not be this some time, as he’s turned off from the foundry ; 

you’d better think twice afore refusing Miss Simmonds’ offer.’* 

416 


The Return Home 

“ Turned off from the foundry ? Jem ? ” cried Mary. 

“To be sure ! didn’t you know it ? Decent men were 

not going to work with a no ! I suppose I mustn’t say it, 

seeing you went to such trouble to get up an alibi ; not that 
I should think much the worse of a spirited young fellow for 
falling foul of a rival, — ^they always do at the theatre.’’ 

But Mary’s thoughts were with Jem. How good he had 
been never to name his dismissal to her ! How much he had 
had to endure for her sake ! 

“ Tell me all about it,” she gasped out. 

“ Why, you see, they’ve always swords quite handy at 
them plays,” began Sally ; but Mary, with an impatient 
shake of her head, interrupted — 

“ About Jem, — about Jem, I want to know.” 

“ Oh ! I don’t pretend to know more than is in every 
one’s mouth : he’s turned away from the foundry, because 
folk don’t think you’ve cleared him outright of the murder ; 
though perhaps the jury were loth to hang him. Old Mr. 
Carson is savage against judge and jury, and lawyers and all, 
as I heard.” 

“ I must go to him, I must go to him,” repeated Mary, in 
a hurried manner. 

“ He’ll tell you all I’ve said is true, and not a word of 
lie,” replied Sally. “ So I’ll not give your answer to Miss 
Simmonds, but leave you to think twice about it. Good 
afternoon ! ” 

Mary shut the door, and turned into the house. 

Her father sat in the same attitude ; the old unchanging 
attitude. Only his head was more bowed towards the 
ground. 

She put on her bonnet to go to Ancoats ; for see, and 
question, and comfort, and worship Jem, she must. 

As she hung about her father for an instant before leaving 
him, he spoke — voluntarily spoke for the first time since her 
return ; but his head was drooping so low she could not hear 
what he said, so she stooped down ; and after a moment’s 
pause, he repeated the words — 

417 


2 E 


Mary Barton 

“ Tell Jem Wilson to come here at eight o’clock to-night.” 
Could he have overheard her conversation with Sally 
Leadbitter ? They had whispered low, she thought. Pon- 
dering on this, and many other things, she reached Ancoats. 


CHAPTER XXXV 

FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES.” 

“ Oh, had he lived. 

Replied Rusilla, never penitence 

Had equalled his 1 full well I knew his heart, 

Vehement in all things. He would on himself 
Have wreaked such penance as had reached the height 
Of fleshy sufiering, — yea, which, being told. 

With its portentous rigour should have made 
The memory of his fault, o’erpowered and lost 
In shuddering pity and astonishment. 

Fade like a feeble horror.” 

Southey’s ” Roderick.” 

As Mary was turning into the street where the Wilsons 
lived, Jem overtook her. He came upon her suddenly, and 
she started. “ You’re going to see mother ? ” he asked ten- 
derly, placing her arm within his, and slackening his pace. 

“ Yes, and you too. Oh, Jem, is it true ? tell me.” 

She felt rightly that he would guess the meaning of her 
only half-expressed inquiry. He hesitated a moment before 
he answered her. 

“ Darling, it is ; it’s no use hiding it — if you mean that. 
I’m no longer to work at Buncombe’s foundry. It’s no time 
(to my mind) to have secrets from each other, though I did 
not name it yesterday, thinking you might fret. I shall soon 
get work again, never fear.” 


40 


418 


“Forgive us our Trespasses” 

“ But why did they turn you off, when the jury had said 
you were innocent ? ” 

“ It was not just to say ‘ turned off,’ though I don’t think 
I could have well stayed on. A good number of the men 
managed to let out they should not like to work under me 
again ; there were some few who knew me well enough to 
feel I could not have done it, but more were doubtful ; and 
one spoke to young Mr. Duncombe, hinting at what they 
thought.” 

“ Oh, Jem ! what a shame ! ” said Mary, with mournful 
indignation. 

“Nay, darling ! I’m not for blaming them. Poor fellows 
like them have nought to stand upon and be proud of but 
their character ; and it’s fitting they should take care of that, 
and keep that free from soil and taint.” 

“But you, — what could they get but good from you? 
They might have known you by this time.” 

“ So some do ; the overlooker, I’m sure, would know I’m 
innocent. Indeed, he said as much to-day; and he said he 
had had some talk with old Mr. Duncombe, and they thought 
it might be better if I left Manchester for a bit ; they’d recom- 
mend me to some other place.” 

But Mary could only shake her head in a mournful way, 
and repeat her words — 

“ They might have known thee better, Jem.” 

Jem pressed the little hand he held between his own 
work-hardened ones. After a minute or two, he asked — 

“ Mary, art thou much bound to Manchester? Would it 
grieve thee sore to quit the old smoke- jack ? ” 

“ With thee ? ” she asked, in a quiet, glancing way. 

“ Ay, lass ! Trust me, I’ll never ask thee to leave Man- 
chester while I’m in it. Because I have heard fine things of 
Canada ; and our overlooker has a cousin in the foundry line 
there. Thou knowest where Canada is, Mary ? ” 

“ Not rightly — not now, at any rate; but with thee, Jem,” 
her voice sunk to a soft, low whisper, “ anywhere ” 

What was the use of a geographical description ? 

419 


Mary Barton 

“ But father I ” said Mary, suddenly breaking that 
delicious silence with the one sharp discord in her present 
life. 

She looked up at her lover’s grave face ; and then the 
message her father had sent flashed across her memory. 

“ Oh, Jem, did I tell you ? Father sent word he wished to 
speak with you. I was to bid you come to him at eight 
to-night. What can he want, Jem ? ” 

“ I cannot tell,” replied he. “ At any rate I’ll go. It’s 
no use troubling ourselves to guess,” he continued, after a 
pause for a few minutes, during which they slowly and 
silently paced up and down the by-street, into which he 
had led her when their conversation began. “ Come and see 
mother, and then I’ll take thee home, Mary. Thou wert all 
in a tremble when first I came up to thee ; thou’rt not fit to 
be trusted home by thyself,” said he, with fond exaggeration 
of her helplessness. 

Yet a little more lovers’ loitering ! a few more words, in 
themselves nothing — to you nothing — but to those two, what 
tender passionate language can I use to express the feelings 
which thrilled through that young man and maiden, as they 
listened to the syllables made dear and lovely through life 
by that hour’s low-whispered talk. 

It struck the half-hour past seven. 

“ Come and speak to mother ; she knows you’re to be her 
daughter, Mary, darling.” 

So they went in. Jane Wilson was rather chafed at her 
son’s delay in returning home, for as yet he had managed to 
keep her in ignorance of his dismissal from the foundry ; and 
it was her way to prepare some little pleasure, some little 
comfort for those she loved; and if they, unwittingly, did 
not appear at the proper time to enjoy her preparation, she 
worked herself up into a state of fretfulness which found 
vent in upbraidings as soon as ever the objects of her care 
appeared, thereby marring the peace which should ever be 
the atmosphere of a home, however humble ; and causing a 
feeling almost amounting to loathing to arise at the sight of 

420 


“ Forgive us our Trespasses ” 

the “ stalled ox,” which, though an effect and proof of careful 
love, has been the cause of so much disturbance. 

Mrs. Wilson had first sighed, and then grumbled to 
herself, over the increasing toughness of the potato-cakes she 
had made for her son’s tea. 

The door opened, and he came in ; his face brightening 
into proud smiles, Mary Barton hanging on his arm, blushing 
and dimpling, with eyelids veiling the happy light of her 
eyes, — there was around the young couple a radiant atmo- 
sphere — a glory of happiness. 

Could his mother mar it ? Could she break into it with 
her Martha-like cares? Only for one moment did she 
remember her sense of injury, — her wasted trouble, — and 
then her whole woman’s heart heaving with motherly love 
and sympathy, she opened her arms, and received Mary 
into them, as shedding tears of agitated joy, she murmured 
in her ear — 

“ Bless thee, Mary, bless thee I Only make him happy, 
and God bless thee for ever ! ” 

It took some of Jem’s self-command to separate those 
whom he so much loved, and who were beginning, for his 
sake, to love one another so dearly. But the time for his 
meeting John Barton drew on ; and it was a long way to his 
house. 

As they walked briskly thither, they hardly spoke ; though 
many thoughts were in their minds. 

The sun had not long set, but the first faint shade of 
twilight was over all ; and, when they opened the door, Jem 
could hardly perceive the objects within by the waning light 
of day, and the flickering fire-blaze. 

But Mary saw all at a glance. 

Her eye, accustomed to what was usual in the aspect 
of the room, saw instantly what was unusual, — saw, and 
understood it all. 

Her father was standing behind his habitual chair; 
holding by the back of it as if for support. And opposite 
to him there stood Mr. Carson; the dark outline of his 

421 


Mary Barton 

stem figure looming large against the light of the fire in that 
little room. 

Behind her father sat Joh Legh, his head in his hands, 
and resting his elhow on the little family table, — listening 
evidently; but as evidently deeply affected by what he 
heard. 

There seemed to be some pause in the conversation. 
Mary and Jem stood at the half-open door, not daring to 
stir ; hardly to breathe. 

“ And have I heard you aright ? ” began Mr. Carson, with 
his deep quivering voice. “ Man ! have I heard you aright ? 
Was it you, then, that killed my boy ? my only son ? ” — (he 
said these last few words almost as if appealing for pity, and 
then he changed his tone to one more vehement and fierce.) 
“ Don’t dare to think that I shall be merciful, and spare you, 
because you have come forward to accuse yourself. I tell 
you I will not spare you the least pang the law can inflict, — 
you, who did not show pity on my boy, shall have none 
from me.” 

“I did not ask for any,” said John Barton, in a low 
voice. 

“ Ask, or not ask, what care I ? You shall be hanged — 
hanged— man ! ” said he, advancing his face, and repeating 
the word with slow grinding emphasis, as if to infuse some of 
the bitterness of his soul into it. 

John Barton gasped; but not with fear. It was only 
that he felt it terrible to have inspired such hatred, as 
was concentrated into every word, every gesture of Mr. 
Carson’s. 

“ As for being hanged, sir, I know it’s all right and 
proper. I dare say it’s bad enough ; but I tell you what, 
sir,” speaking with an outburst, “ if you’d hanged me the day 
after I done the deed, I would have gone down on my knees 
and blessed you. Death ! Lord, what is it to Life ? To such 
a life as I’ve been leading this fortnight past. Life at best is 
no great thing ; but such a life as I have dragged through 
since that night ” — he shuddered at the thought. “ Why, sir, 

422 


95 


“ Forgive us our Trespasses 

I’ve been on the point of killing myself this many a time to 
get away from my own thoughts. I didn’t ! and I’ll tell you 
why. I didn’t know but that I should be more haunted 
than ever with the recollection of my sin. Oh ! God above 
only can tell the agony with which I’ve repented me of it, 
and part perhaps because I feared He would think I were 
impatient of the misery He sent as punishment— far, far 
worse misery than any hanging, sir.” He ceased from 
excess of emotion. 

Then he began again 

“ Sin’ that day (it may be very wicked, sir, but it’s the 
truth) I’ve kept thinking and thinking if I were but in that 
world where they say God is. He would, maybe, teach me 
right from wrong, even if it were with many stripes. I’ve 
been sore puzzled here. I would go through hell-fire if I 
could but get free from sin at last, it’s such an awful thing. 
As for hanging, that’s just nought at all.” 

His exhaustion compelled him to sit down. Mary rushed 
to him. It seemed as if till then he had been unaware of 
her presence. 

“ Ay, ay, wench ! said he feebly, “ is it thee ? Where’s 
Jem Wilson ? ” 

Jem came forward. John Barton spoke again, with 
many a break and gasping pause — 

“ Lad ! thou hast borne a deal for me. It’s the meanest 
thing I ever did to leave thee to bear the brunt. Thou, who 
wert as innocent of any knowledge of it as the babe unborn. 
I’ll not bless thee for it. Blessing from such as me would 
not bring thee any good. Thou’lt love Mary, though she is 
my child.” 

He ceased, and there was a pause for a few seconds. 

Then Mr. Carson turned to go. When his hand was on 
the latch of the door, he hesitated for an instant. 

“ You can have no doubt for what purpose I go. Straight 
to the police-office, to send men to take care of you, wretched 
man, and your accomplice. To-morrow morning your tale 
shall be repeated to those who can commit you to gaol, and 

423 


Mary Barton 

before long you shall have the opportunity of trying how 
desirable hanging is.” 

“Oh, sir!” said Mary, springing forward, and catching 
hold of Mr. Carson’s arm, “ my father is dying. Look at 
him, sir. If you want Death for Death, you have it. Don’t 
take him away from me these last hours. He must go 
alone through Death, but let me be with him as long as 
I can. Oh, sir! if you have any mercy in you, leave him 
here to die.” 

John himself stood up, stiff and rigid, and replied — 

“ Mary, wench ! I owe him summut. I will go die, 
where, and as he wishes me. Thou hast said true, I am 
standing side by side with Death ; and it matters little where 
I spend the bit of time left of life. That time I must pass 
wrestling with my soul for a character to take into the other 
world. I’ll go where you see fit, sir. He’s innocent,” faintly 
indicating Jem, as he fell back in his chair. 

“Never fear! They cannot touch him,” said Job Legh, 
in a low voice. 

But as Mr. Carson was on the point of leaving the house 
with no sign of relenting about him, he was again stopped by 
John Barton, who had risen once more from his chair, and 
stood supporting himself on Jem, while he spoke. 

“ Sir, one word ! My hairs are grey with suffering, and 
yours with years ” 

“ And have I had no suffering? ” asked Mr. Carson, as if 
appealing for sympathy, even to the murderer of his child. 

And the murderer of his child answered to the appeal, 
and groaned in spirit over the anguish he had caused. 

“ Have I had no inward suffering to blanch these hairs ? 
Have not I toiled and struggled even to these years with 
hopes in my heart that all centred in my boy? I did not 
speak of them, but were they not there? I seemed hard 
and cold ; and so I might be to others, but not to him ! — who 
sha(ll ever imagine the love I bore to him ? Even he never 
dreamed how my heart leapt up at the sound of his footstep, 
and how precious he was to his poor old father. And he is 

424 


“ Forgive us our Trespasses ” 

gone — killed — out of the hearing of all loving words — out of 
my sight for ever. He was my sunshine, and now it is 
night 1 Oh, my God ! comfort me, comfort me ! ” cried the 
old man aloud. 

The eyes of John Barton grew dim with tears. Eich and 
poor, masters and men, were then brothers in the deep 
suffering of the heart; for was not this the very anguish 
he had felt for little Tom, in years so long gone by, that they 
seemed like another life ? 

The mourner before him was no longer the employer, a 
being of another race, eternally placed in antagonistic attitude ; 
going through the world glittering like gold, with a stony 
heart within, which knew no sorrow but through the accidents 
of Trade ; no longer the enemy, the oppressor, but a very poor 
and desolate old man. 

The sympathy for suffering, formerly so prevalent a 
feeling with him, again filled John Barton’s heart, and almost 
impelled him to speak (as best he could) some earnest tender 
words to the stern man, shaking in his agony. 

But who was he, that he should utter sympathy or 
consolation ? The cause of all this woe. 

Oh, blasting thought ! Oh, miserable remembrance ! He 
had forfeited all right to bind up his brother’s wounds. 

Stunned by the thought, he sank upon the seat, almost 
crushed with the knowledge of the consequences of his own 
action ; for he had no more imagined to himself the blighted 
home, and the miserable parents, than does the soldier, who 
discharges his musket, picture to himself the desolation of the 
wife, and the pitiful cries of the helpless little ones, who are 
in an instant to be made widowed and fatherless. 

To intimidate a class of men, known only to those below 
them as desirous to obtain the greatest quantity of work for 
the lowest wages — at most to remove an overbearing partner 
from an obnoxious firm, who stood in the way of those who 
struggled as well as they were able to obtain their rights — 
this was the light in which John Barton had viewed his 
deed ; and even so viewing it, after the excitement had 

425 


Mary Barton 

passed away, the Avenger, the sure Avenger, had found him 
out. 

But now he knew that he had killed a man, and a brother 
— now he knew that no good thing could come out of this 
evil, even to the sufferers whose cause he had so blindly 
espoused. 

He lay across the table, broken-hearted. Every fresh 
quivering sob of Mr. Carson’s stabbed him to his soul. 

He felt execrated by all ; and as if he could never lay bare 
the perverted reasonings which had made the performance 
of undoubted sin appear a duty. The longing to plead some 
faint excuse grew stronger and stronger. He feebly raised 
his head, and looking at Job Legh, he whispered out — 

“ I did not know what I was doing. Job Legh ; God 
knows I didn’t. Oh, sir ! ” said he wildly, almost throwing 
himself at Mr. Carson’s feet, “ say you forgive me the 
anguish I now see I have caused you. I care not for pain, 
or death, you know I don’t ; but oh, man ! forgive me the 
trespass I have done ! ” 

“ Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that 
trespass against us,” said Job, solemnly and low, as if in 
prayer : as if the words were suggested by those John Barton 
had used. 

Mr. Carson took his hands away from his face. I would 
rather see death than the ghastly gloom which darkened that 
countenance. 

“ Let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that I may have 
vengeance for my son’s murder.” 

There are blasphemous actions as well as blasphemous 
words : all unloving, cruel deeds, are acted blasphemy. 

Mr. Carson left the house. And John Barton lay on the 
ground as one dead. 

They lifted him up, and, almost hoping that that deep 
trance might be to him the end of all earthly things, they 
bore him to his bed. 

For a time they listened with divided attention to his faint 
breathings ; for in each hasty hurried step that echoed in the 

426 


“Forgive us our Trespasses” 

street outside, they thought they heard the approach of the 
officers of justice. 

When Mr. Carson left the house he was dizzy with agita- 
tion ; the hot blood went careering through his frame. He 
could not see the deep blue of the night-heavens for the fierce 
pulses which throbbed in his head. And, partly, to steady 
and calm himself, he leaned against a railing, and looked up 
into those calm majestic depths with all their thousand stars. 

And by-and-by his own voice returned upon him, as if 
the last words he had spoken were being uttered through all 
that infinite space ; but in their echoes there was a tone of 
unutterable sorrow. 

“ Let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that I may have 
vengeance for my son’s murder.” 

He tried to shake off the spiritual impression made by this 
imagination. He was feverish and ill — and no wonder. 

So he turned to go homewards ; not, as he had threatened, 
to the police-office. After all (he told himself), that would 
do in the morning. No fear of the man's escaping, unless he 
escaped to the grave. 

So he tried to banish the phantom voices and shapes 
which came unbidden to his brain, and to recall his balance 
of mind by walking calmly and slowly, and noticing every- 
thing which struck his senses. 

It was a warm soft evening in spring, and there were 
many persons in the streets. Among others a nurse with a 
little girl in her charge, conveying her home from some chil- 
dren’s gaiety ; a dance most likely, for the lovely little creature 
was daintily decked out in soft, snowy muslin ; and her fairy 
feet tripped along by her nurse’s side as if to the measure of 
some tune she had lately kept time to. 

Suddenly up behind her there came a rough, rude errand- 
boy, nine or ten years of age ; a giant he looked by the fairy- 
child, as she fluttered along. I don’t know how it was, but 
in some awkward way he knocked the poor little girl down 
upon the hard pavement as he brushed rudely past, not much 
caring whom he hurt, so that he got along. 

427 


Mary Barton 

The child arose, sobbing with pain ; and not without 
cause, for blood was dropping down from the face, but a 
minute befhre so fair and bright — dropping down on the 
pretty frock, making those scarlet marks so terrible to little 
children. 

The nurse, a powerful woman, had seized the boy, just as 
Mr. Carson (who had seen the whole transaction) came up. 

“You naughty little rascal ! I’ll give you to a policeman, 
that I will ! Do you see how you’ve hurt the little girl ? Do 
you ? ’’ accompanying every sentence with a violent jerk of 
passionate anger. 

The lad looked hard and defying, but withal terrified at 
the threat of the policeman, those ogres of our streets to all 
unlucky urchins. The nurse saw it, and began to drag him 
along, with a view of making what she called “ a wholesome 
impression.’’ 

His terror increased and with it his irritation ; when the 
little sweet face, choking away its sobs, pulled down nurse’s 
head, and said — 

“ Please, dear nurse, I’m not much hurt ; it was very silly 
to cry, you know. He did not mean to do it. He did not 
know what he was doing^ did you, little boy ? Nurse won’t call 
a policeman, so don’t be frightened.’’ And she put up her 
little mouth to be kissed by her injurer, just as she had been 
taught to do at home to “ make peace.’’ 

“ That lad will mind, and be more gentle for the time to 
come. I’ll be bound, thanks to that little lady,” said a passer- 
by, half to himself, and half to Mr. Carson, whom he had 
observed to notice the scene. 

The latter took no apparent heed of the remark, but 
passed on. But the child’s pleading reminded him of the 
low, broken voice he had so lately heard, penitently and 
humbly urging the same extenuation of his great guilt. 

“ I did not know what I was doing.” 

He had some association with those words ; he had heard, 
or read of that plea somewhere before. Where was it ? 

“ Could it be ? ” 


428 


55 


Forgive us our Trespasses 

He would look when he got home. So when he entered 
his house he went straight and silently upstairs to his library, 
and took down the great, large handsome Bible, all grand 
and golden, with its leaves adhering together from the book- 
binder’s press, so little had it been used. 

On the first page (which fell open to Mr. Carson’s view) 
were written the names of his children, and his own. 

“ Henry John, son of the above John and Elizabeth Carson. 

Bom, Sept. 29th, 1815.” 

To make the entry complete, his death should now be 
added. But the page became hidden by the gathering mist 
of tears. 

Thought upon thought, and recollection upon recollection 
came crowding in, from the remembrance of the proud day 
when he had purchased the costly book, in order to write 
down the birth of the little babe of a day old. 

He laid his head down on the open page, and let the 
tears fall slowly on the spotless leaves. 

His son’s murderer was discovered; had confessed his 
guilt ; and yet (strange to say) he could not hate him with 
the vehemence of hatred he had felt, when he had imagined 
him a young man, full of lusty life, defying all laws, human 
and divine. In spite of his desire to retain the revengeful 
feeling he considered as a duty to his dead son, something of 
pity would steal in for the poor, wasted skeleton of a man, 
the smitten creature, who had told him of his sin, and im- 
plored his pardon that night. 

In the days of his childhood and youth, Mr. Carson had 
been accustomed to poverty ; but it was honest, decent 
poverty; not the grinding squalid misery he had remarked 
in every part of John Barton’s house, and which contrasted 
strangely with the pompous sumptuousness of the room in 
which he now sate. Unaccustomed wonder filled his mind 
at the reflection of the different lots of the brethren of 
mankind. 

Then he roused himself from his reverie, and turned to 

429 


Mary Barton 

the object of his search — the Gospel, where he half expected 
to find the tender pleading : “ They know not what they do.” 

It was murk midnight by this time, and the house was 
stiU and quiet. There was nothing to interrupt the old man 
in his unwonted study. 

Years ago, the Gospel had been his task-book in learning 
to read. So many years ago, that he had become familiar 
with the events before he could comprehend the Spirit that 
made the Life. 

He fell to the narrative now afresh, with all the interest 
of a little child. He began at the beginning, and read on 
almost greedily, understanding for the first time the full 
meaning of the story. He came to the end ; the awful End. 
And there were the haunting words of pleading. 

He shut the book, and thought deeply. 

All night long, the Archangel combated with the Demon. 

All night long, others watched by the bed of Death. 
John Barton had revived to fitful intelligence. He spoke 
at times with even something of his former energy ; and in 
the racy Lancashire dialect he had always used when speak- 
ing freely. 

“You see I’ve so often been hankering after the right 
way ; and it’s a hard one for a poor man to find. At least 
it’s been so to me. No one learned me, and no one telled 
me. When I was a little chap they taught me to read, and 
then they never gave no books ; only I heard say the Bible 
was a good book. So when I grew thoughtful, and puzzled, 
I took to it. But you’d never believe black was black, or 
night was night, when you saw all about you acting as if 
black was white, and night was day. It’s not much I can 
say for myself in t’other world. God forgive me ; but I can 
say this, I would fain have gone after the Bible rules if I’d 
seen folk credit it ; they all spoke up for it, and went and 
did clean contrary. In those days I would ha’ gone about 
wi’ my Bible, hke a little child, my finger in th’ place, and 
asking the meaning of this or that text, and no one told me. 
Then I took out two or three texts as clear as glass, and I 


“ Forgive us our Trespasses ” 

tried to do what they bid me do. But I don’t know how it 
was, masters and men, all alike cared no more for minding 
those texts, than I did for the Lord Mayor of London ; so I 
grew to think it must be a sham put upon poor ignorant 
folk, women, and such like. 

“ It was not long I tried to live Gospel- wise, but it was 
liker heaven than any other bit of earth has been. I’d old 
Alice to strengthen me ; but every one else said, ‘ Stand up 
for thy rights, or thou’lt never get ’em ; ’ and wife and 
children never spoke, but their helplessness cried aloud, and 
I was driven to do as others did, — and then Tom died. You 
know all about that — I’m getting scant o’ breath, and blind- 
like.” 

Then again he spoke, after some minutes of hushed 
silence. 

“ All along it came natural to love folk, though now I am 
what I am. I think one time I could e’en have loved the 
masters if they’d ha’ letten me ; that was in my Gospel-days, 
afore my child died o’ hunger. I was tore in two oftentimes, 
between my sorrow for poor suffering folk, and my tr3dng to 
love them as caused their sufferings (to my mind). 

“ At last I gave it up in despair, trying to make folks’ 
actions square wi’ th’ Bible; and I thought I’d no longer 
labour at following th’ Bible mysel. I’ve said all this afore, 
maybe. But from that time I’ve dropped down, down — 
down.” 

After that he only spoke in broken sentences. 

“I did not think he’d been such an old man,— oh! that 
he had but forgiven me,” — and then came earnest, passionate, 
broken words of prayer. 

Job Legh had gone home like one struck down with the 
unexpected shock. Mary and Jem together waited the 
approach of death ; but, as the final struggle drew on, and 
morning dawned, Jem suggested some alleviation to the 
gasping breath, to purchase which he left the house in search 
of a druggist’s shop, which should be open at that early 
hour. 


431 


Mary Barton 

During his absence, Barton grew worse; he had fallen 
across the bed, and his breathing seemed almost stopped ; in 
vain did Mary strive to raise him, her sorrow and exhaustion 
had rendered her too weak. 

So, on hearing some one enter the house-place below, she 
cried out for Jem to come to her assistance. 

A step, which was not Jem’s, came up the stairs. 

Mr. Carson stood in the doorway. In one instant he 
comprehended the case. 

He raised up the powerless frame; and the departing 
soul looked out of the eyes with gratitude. He held the 
dying man propped in his arms. John Barton folded his 
hands as if in prayer. 

“ Pray for us,” said Mary, sinking on her knees, and 
forgetting in that solemn hour all that had divided her father 
and Mr. Carson. 

No other words would suggest themselves than some of 
those he had read only a few hours before — 

“ God be merciful to us sinners. — Forgive us our tres- 
passes as we forgive them that trespass against us.” 

And when the words were said, John Barton lay a corpse 
in Mr. Carson’s arms. 

So ended the tragedy of a poor man’s life. 

Mary knew nothing more for many minutes. When she 
recovered consciousness, she found herself supported by 
Jem on the “ settle ” in the house-place. Job and Mr. Carson 
were there, talking together lowly and solemnly. Then Mr. 
Carson bade farewell and left the house ; and Job said aloud, 
but as if speaking to himself — 

“ God has heard that man’s prayer. He has comforted 
him.” 


432 


Jem’s Interview with Mr. Buncombe 


OHAPTEE XXXVI 

Jem’s inteeview with me. buncombe 

“ The first dark day of nothingness, 

The last of danger and distress.” 

Bybon. 

Although Mary had hardly been conscious of her thoughts, 
and it had been more like a secret instinct informing her 
soul, than the result of any process of reasoning, she had felt 
for some time (ever since her return from Liverpool, in fact), 
that for her father there was but one thing to be desired and 
anticipated, and that was death ! 

She had seen that Conscience had given the mortal 
wound to his earthly frame ; she did not dare to question of 
the infinite mercy of God, what the Future Life would be to 
him. 

Though at first desolate and stunned by the blow which 
had fallen on herself, she was resigned and submissive as 
soon as she recovered strength enough to ponder and con- 
sider a little; and you may be sure that no tenderness or 
love was wanting on Jem’s part, and no consideration and 
sympathy on that of Job and Margaret to soothe and comfort 
the girl who now stood alone in the world as far as blood- 
relations were concerned. 

She did not ask or care to know what arrangements they 
were making in whispered tones with regard to the funeral. 
She put herself into their hands with the trust of a little 
child; glad to be undisturbed in the reveries and remem- 
brances which filled her eyes with tears, and caused them 
to fall quietly down her pale cheeks. 

It was the longest day she had ever known in her life ; 
every change and every occupation was taken away from 
her : but perhaps the length of quiet time thus afforded was 
really good, although its duration weighed upon her ; for by 

433 2 F 


Mary Barton 

this means she contemplated her situation in every light, 
and fully understood that the morning’s event had left her 
an orphan ; and thus she was spared the pangs caused to us 
by the occurrence of death in the evening, just before we 
should naturally, in the usual course of events, lie down to 
slumber. For in such case, worn out by anxiety, and it may 
be by much watching, our very excess of grief rocks itself to 
sleep, before we have had time to realise its cause ; and we 
waken, with a start of agony like a fresh stab, to the con- 
sciousness of the one awful vacancy, which shall never, 
while the world endures, be filled again. 

The day brought its burden of duty to Mrs. Wilson. She 
felt bound by regard, as well as by etiquette, to go and see 
her future daughter-in-law. And, by an old association of 
ideas (perhaps of death with churchyards, and churches with 
Sunday), she thought it necessary to put on her best, and 
latterly unused clothes, the airing of which on a little clothes- 
horse before the fire seemed to give her a not unpleasing 
occupation. 

When Jem returned home late in the evening succeeding 
John Barton’s death, weary and oppressed with the occur- 
rences and excitements of the day, he found his mother busy 
about her mourning, and much inclined to talk. Although 
he longed for quiet, he could not avoid sitting down and 
answering her questions. 

“ Well, Jem ! he’s gone at last, is he ? ” 

“ Yes. How did you hear, mother? ” 

“ Oh, Job came over here, and telled me, on his way to 
the undertaker’s. Did he make a fine end ? ” 

It struck Jem that she had not heard of the confession 
which had been made by John Barton on his death- bed ; he 
remembered Job Legh’s discretion, and he determined that 
if it could be avoided his mother should never hear of it. 
Many of the difficulties to be anticipated in preserving the 
secret would be obviated, if he could induce his mother to 
fall into the plan he had named to Mary of emigrating to 
Canada. The reasons which rendered this secrecy desirable 

434 


Jem’s Interview with Mr. Buncombe 

related to the domestic happiness he hoped for. With his 
mother’s irritable temper, he could hardly expect that all allu- 
sion to the crime of John Barton would be for ever restrained 
from passing her lips, and he knew the deep trial which such 
references would be to Mary. Accordingly he resolved .as 
soon as possible in the morning to go to Job, and beseech 
his silence ; he trusted that secrecy in that quarter, even if 
the knowledge had been extended to Margaret, might be 
easily secured. 

But what would be Mr. Carson’s course? Were there 
any means by which he might be persuaded to spare John 
Barton’s memory? 

He was roused up from this train of thought by his 
mother’s more irritated tone of voice. 

“ Jem ! ” she was saying, “ thou mightst just as well never 
be at a death-bed again, if thou cannot bring off more news 
about it ; here have I been by mysel all day (except when 
oud Job came in), but, thinks I, when Jem comes he’ll be 
sure to be good company, seeing he was in the house at the 
very time of the death ; and here thou art, without a word 
to throw at a dog, much less thy mother : it’s no use thy 
going to a death-bed if thou cannot carry away any of the 
sayings ! ” 

“ He did not make any, mother,” replied Jem. 

“ Well, to be sure ! So fond as he used to be of holding 
forth, to miss such a fine opportunity that will never come 
again ! Did he die easy ? ” 

“ He was very restless all night long,” said Jem, reluctantly 
returning to the thoughts of that time. 

“ And in course thou plucked the pillow away ? Thou 
didst not! Well! with thy bringing up, and thy learning, 
thou mightst have known that were the only help in 
such a case. There were pigeons’ feathers in the pillow, 
depend on’t. To think of two grown-up folk like you and 
Mary, not knowing death could never come easy to a person 
lying on a pillow with pigeons’ feathers in ! ” 

Jem was glad to escape from all this talking, to the 

435 


Mary Barton 

solitude and quiet of his own room, where he could lie and 
think uninterruptedly of what had happened and remained 
to be done. 

The first thing was to seek an interview with Mr. Dun- 
combe, his former master. Accordingly, early the next 
morning Jem set off on his walk to the works, where for so 
many years his days had been spent; where for so long 
a time his thoughts had been thought, his hopes and fears 
experienced. It was not a cheering feeling to remember 
that henceforward he was to be severed from all these 
familiar places ; nor were his spirits enhvened by the evident 
feehngs of the majority of those who had been his fellow- 
workmen. As he stood in the entrance to the foundry, 
awaiting Mr. Duncombe’s leisure, many of those employed 
in the works passed him on then return from breakfast; 
and, with one or two exceptions, without any acknow- 
ledgment of former acquaintance beyond a distant nod at 
the utmost. 

“It is hard,” said Jem to himself, with a bitter and 
indignant feeling rising in his throat, “ that, let a man’s life 
have been what it may, folk are so ready to credit the first 
word against him. I could live it down if I stayed in 
England; but then what would not Mary have to bear? 
Sooner or later the truth would out ; and then she would be 
a show to folk for many a day as John Barton’s daughter. 
Well! God does not judge as hardly as man, that’s one 
comfort for all of us ! ” 

Mr. Duncombe did not believe in Jem’s guilt, in spite of 
the silence in which he again this day heard the imputation 
of it; but he agreed that under the circumstances it was 
better he should leave the country. 

“We have been written to by Government, as I think I 
told you before, to recommend an intelligent man, well 
acquainted with mechanics, as instrument-maker to the 
Agricultural College they are establishing at Toronto, in 
Canada. It is a comfortable appointment, — house, — land, — 
and a good percentage on the instruments made. I will 

436 


Jem’s Interview with Mr, Duncombe 

show you the particulars if I can lay my hand on the letter, 
which I believe I must have left at home.” 

“ Thank you, sir. No need for seeing the letter to say 
I’ll accept it. I must leave Manchester ; and I’d as lief quit 
England at once when I’m about it.” 

“ Of course Government will give you your passage ; 
indeed, I believe an allowance would be made for a 
family if you had one; but you are not a married man, 1 
believe ? ” 

“No, sir, but” Jem hung back from a confessior 

with the awkwardness of a girl. 

“ But ” said Mr. Duncombe, smiling, “ you would 

like to be a married man before you go, I suppose ; eh, 
Wilson ? ” 

“ If you please, sir. Aryl there’s my mother, too. I 
hope she’ll go with us. But I can pay her passage; no 
need to trouble Government.” 

“ Nay, nay ! I’ll write to-day and recommend you ; and 
say that you have a family of two. They’ll never ask if the 
family goes upwards or downwards. I shall see you again 
before you sail, I hope, Wilson ; though I believe they’ll not 
allow you long to wait. Come to my house next time; 
you’ll find it pleasanter, I dare say. These men are so 
wrong-headed. Keep up your heart ! ” 

Jem felt that it was a relief to have this point settled ; 
and that he need no longer weigh reasons for and against 
his emigration. 

And with his path growing clearer and clearer before 
him the longer he contemplated it, he went to see Mary, and 
if he judged it fit, to tell her what he had decided upon. 
Margaret was sitting with her. 

“ Grandfather wants to see you ! ” said she to Jem, on 
his entrance. 

“ And I want to see him,” replied Jem, suddenly re- 
membering his last night’s determination to enjoin secrecy 
on Job Legh. 

So he hardly stayed to kiss poor Mary’s sweet woe- 
437 


Mary Barton 

begone face, but tore himself away from his darling to go to 
the old man, who awaited him impatiently. 

“I’ve getten a note from Mr. Carson,” exclaimed Job, 
the moment he saw Jem; “ and, man alive, he wants to see 
thee and me! For sure, there’s no more mischief up, is 
there?” said he, looking at Jem with an expression of 
wonder. But if any suspfcion mingled for an instant with 
the thoughts that crossed Job’s mind, it was immediately 
dispelled by Jem’s honest, fearless, open countenance. 

“ I can’t guess what he’s wanting, poor old chap,” 
answered he. “ Maybe there’s some point he’s not yet 
satisfied on; maybe — but it’s no use guessing; let’s be off.” 

“ It wouldn’t be better for thee to be scarce a bit, would 
it, and leave me to go and find out what’s up? He has, 
perhaps, getten some crotchet into his head thou’rt an 
accomplice, and is laying a trap for thee.” 

“ I’m not afeard I ” said Jem ; “ I’ve done nought VTrong, 
and know nought wrong, about yon poor dead lad ; though 
I’ll own I had evil thoughts once on a time. Folk can’t 
mistake long if once they’ll search into the truth. I’ll go 
and give the old gentleman all the satisfaction in my power, 
now it can injure no one. I’d my reasons for wanting to 
see him besides, and it all falls in right enough for me.” 

Job was a little reassured by Jem’s boldness ; but still, 
if the truth must be told, he wished the young man would 
follow his advice, and leave him to sound Mr. Carson’s 
intentions. 

Meanwhile Jane Wilson had donned her Sunday suit of 
black, and set off on her errand of condolence. She felt 
nervous and uneasy at the idea of the moral sayings and 
texts which she fancied were expected from visitors on 
occasions like the present ; and prepared many a good set 
speech as she walked towards the house of mourning. 

As she gently opened the door, Mary, sitting idly by the 
fire, caught a glimpse of her, — of Jem’s mother, — of the 
early friend of her dead parents, — of the kind minister to 
many a httle want in days of childhood, — and rose and 

438 


Jem’s Interview with Mr. Duncombe 

came and fel about her neck, with many a sob and moan, 
saying— 

“ Oh, he’s gone — he’s dead — all gone — all dead, and I am 
left alone ! ” 

“Poor wench! poor, poor wench!’’ said Jane Wilson, 
tenderly kissing her. “ Thou’rt not alone ; so donnot take 
on so. I’ll say nought of Him who’s above, for thou knowest 
He is ever the orphan’s friend ; but think on Jem ! nay, 
Mary, dear, think on me ! I’m but a frabbit woman at 
times, but I’ve a heart within me through all my temper, 
and thou shalt he as a daughter henceforward, as mine own 
ewe-lamb. Jem shall not love thee better in his way, than 
I will in mine ; and thou’lt bear with my turns, Mary, know- 
ing that in my soul God sees the love that shall ever be 
tliine, if thou’lt take me for thy mother, and speak no more 
of being alone.” 

Mrs. Wilson was weeping herself long before she had 
ended this speech, which was so different to all she had 
planned to say, and from all the formal piety she had laid in 
store for the visit ; for this was heart’s piety, and needed no 
garnish of texts to make it true religion, pure and undefiled. 

They sat together on the same chair, their arms encircling 
each other; they wept for the same dead; they had the 
same hope, and trust, and overflowing love in the living. 

From that time forward, hardly a passing cloud dimmed 
the happy confidence of their intercourse; even by Jem 
would his mother’s temper sooner be irritated than by 
Mary ; before the latter she repressed her occasional nervous 
ill-humour till the habit of indulging it was perceptibly 
decreased. 

Years afterwards, in ^^conversation with Jem, he was 
startled by a chance expression which dropped from his 
mother’s lips; it implied a knowledge of J6lin Barton’s 
crime. It was many a long day since they had seen any 
Manchester people who could have revealed the secret (if 
indeed it was known in Manchester, against which Jem had 
guarded in every possible way). And he was lfi>d to inquire 

439 


Mary Barton 

first as to the extent, and then as to the source of her 
knowledge. It was Mary herself who had told all. 

For on the morning to which this chapter principally 
relates, as Mary sat weeping, and as Mrs. Wilson comforted 
her by every tenderest word and caress, she revealed, to the 
dismayed and astonished Jane, the sting of her deep sorrow ; 
the crime which stained her dead father’s memory. 

She was quite unconscious that Jem had kept it secret 
from his mother; she had imagined it bruited abroad as 
the suspicion against her lover had been; so word after 
word (dropped from her lips in the supposition that Mrs. 
Wilson knew all) had told the tale, and revealed the cause 
of her deep anguish; deeper than is ever caused by Death 
alone. 

On large occasions like the present, Mrs. Wilson’s innate 
generosity came out. Her weak and ailing frame imparted 
its irritation to her conduct in small things, and daily trifles ; 
but she had deep and noble sympathy with great sorrows, and 
even at the time that Mary spoke she allowed no expression 
of surprise or horror to escape her lips. She gave way to no 
curiosity as to the untold details; she was as secret and 
trustworthy as her son himself ; and if in years to come her 
anger was occasionally excited against Mary, and she, on 
rare occasions, yielded to ill-temper against her daughter-in- 
law, she would upbraid her for extravagance, or stinginess, 
or over-dressing; or under-dressing, or too much mirth, or 
too much gloom, but never, never in her most uncontrolled 
moments, did she allude to any one of the circumstances 
relating to Mary’s flirtation with Harry Carson, or his 
murderer; and always when she spoke of John Barton, 
named him with the respect due to his conduct before the 
last, miserable, guilty month of his life. 

Therefore it came like a blow to Jem, when, after years 
had passed away, he gathered his mother’s knowledge of 
the whole affair. From the day when he learnt (not without 
remorse) what hidden depths of self-restraint she had in her 
soul, his manner to her, always tender and respectful, became 

410 


Details connected with the Murder 

reverential ; and it was more than ever a loving strife between 
him and Mary which should most contribute towards the 
happiness of the dechning years of their mother. 

But I am speaking of the events which have occurred 
only lately, while I have yet many things to tell you that 
happened six or seven years ago. 


CHAPTEB XXXVII 

DETAILS CONNECTED WITH THE MUBDER 

“ The rich man dines, while the poor man pines, 

And eats his heart away ; 

‘ They teach us lies,’ he sternly cries, 

‘ Would brothers do as they ? ’” 

“The Dream.” 

Mr. Carson stood at one of the breathing-moments of life. 
The object of the toils, the fears, and the wishes of his past 
years, was suddenly hidden from his sight, — vanished into 
the deep mystery which circumscribes existence. Nay, even 
the vengeance which he had cherished, taken away from 
before his eyes, as by the hand of God. 

Events like these would have startled the most thought- 
less into reflection, much more such a man as Mr. Carson, 
whose mind, if not enlarged, was energetic; indeed, whose 
very energy, having been hitherto the cause of the employ- 
ment of his powers in only one direction, had prevented him 
from becoming largely and philosophically comprehensive in 
his views. 

But now the foundations of his past life were razed to 
the ground, and the place they had once occupied was sown 
with salt, to be rebuilt no more for ever. It was like the 
change from this Life to that other hidden one, when so 

44T 


Mary Barton 

many of the motives which have actuated all our earthly 
existence, will have become more fleeting than the shadows 
of a dream. With a wrench of his soul from the past, 
so much of which was as nothing, and worse than nothing 
to him now, Mr. Carson took some hours, after he had 
witnessed the death of his son’s murderer, to consider 
his situation. 

But suddenly, while he was deliberating, and searching 
for motives which should be effective to compel him to 
^ertion and action once more; while he contemplated the 
desire after riches, social distinction, a name among the 
merchapt-princes amidst whom he moved, and saw these 
false substances fade away into the shadows they truly are, 
and one by one disappear into the grave of his son, — suddenly, 
I say, the thought arose within him that more yet remained 
to be learned about the circumstances and feelings which had 
prompted John Barton’s crime ; and when once this mournful 
curiosity was excited, it seemed to gather strength in every 
moment that its gratification was delayed. Accordingly he 
sent a message to summon Job Legh and Jem Wilson, 
from whom he promised himself some elucidation of what 
was as yet unexplained ; while he himself set forth to call on 
Mr. Bridgnorth, whom he knew to have been Jem’s attorney, 
with a glimmering suspicion intruding on his mind, which he 
strove to repel, that Jem might have had some share m his 
son’s death. 

He had returned before his summoned visitors arrived; 
and had time enough to recur to the evening on which John 
Barton had made his confession. He remembered with 
mortification how he had forgotten his proud reserve, and his 
habitual concealment of his feehngs, and had laid bare his 
agony of grief in the presence of these two men who were 
coming to see him by his desire ; and he entrenched himself 
behind stiff barriers of Self-control, through which he hoped 
no appearance of emotion would force its way in the 
conversation he anticipated. 

Nevertheless, when the servant announced that two men 
442 


Details connected with the Murder 

were there by appointment to speak to him, and he had 
desired ^that they might be shown into the library where 
he sat, any watcher might have perceived by the trembling 
hands, and shaking head, not only how much he was aged 
by the occurrences of the last few weeks, but also how much 
he was agitated at the thought of the impending interview. 

' But he so far succeeded in commanding himself at first, 
as to appear to Jem Wilson and Job Legh one of the hardest 
and most haughty men they had ever spoken to, and to 
forfeit all the interest which he had previously excited in 
their minds by his unreserved display of deep and genuine 
feeling. 

When he had desired them to be seated, he shaded his 
face with his hand for an instant before speaking. 

“I have been calling on Mr. Bridgnorth this morning,” 
said he, at last ; “as I expected, he can give me but little 
satisfaction on some points respecting the occurrence on the 
18th of last month which I desire to have cleared up. Perhaps 
you two can tell me what I want to know. As intimate 
friends of Barton’s you probably know, or can conjecture 
a good deal. Have no scruple as to speaking the truth. 
What you say in this room shall never be named again by 
me. Besides, you are aware that the law allows no one to Efe 
tried twice for the same offence.” 

He stopped for a minute, for the mere act of speaking 
was fatiguing to him after the excitement of the last few 
days. 

Job Legh took the opportunity of speaking. 

“ I’m not going to be affronted either for myself or Jem at 
what you’ve just now been saying about the truth. You 
don’t know us, and there’s an end on’t ; only it’s as well for 
folk to think others good and true until they’re proved 
contrary. Ask what you like, sir. I’ll answer for it we’ll 
either tell truth or hold our tongues.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Carson, slightly bowing 
his head. “ What I wished to know was,” referring to a slip 
of paper he held in his hand, and shaking so much he could 

443 


Mary Barton 

hardly adjust his glasses to his eyes, “whether you, Wilson, 
can explain how Barton came possessed of your gun. I 
believe you refused this explanation to Mr. Bridgnorth.” 

“ I did, sir ! If I had said what I knew then, I saw it 
would criminate Barton, and so I refused telling aught. To 
you, sir, now I will tell everything and anything ; only it is 
but little. The gun was my father’s before it was mine, and 
long ago he and John Barton had a fancy for shooting at the 
gallery ; and they used always to take this gun, and brag that 
though it was old-fashioned it was sure.” 

Jem saw with self-upbraiding pain how Mr. Carson 
winced at these last words; but, at each irrepressible and 
involuntary evidence of feeling, the hearts of the men 
warmed towards him. Jem went on speaking. 

“ One day in the week — I think it was on the Wednesday, 
yes, it was — it was on St. Patrick’s day, I met John just 
coming out of our house, as I was going to my dinner. 
Mother was out, and he’d found no one in. He said he’d 
come to borrow the old gun, and that he’d have made bold, 
and taken it, but it was not to be seen. Mother was afraid 
of it; so, after father’s death (for while he was alive she 
seemed to think he could manage it), I had carried it to my 
own room. I went up and fetched it for John, who stood 
outside the door all the time.” 

“ What did he say he wanted it for ? ” asked Mr. Carson 
hastily. 

“ I don’t think he spoke when I gave it him. At first he 
muttered something about the shooting gallery, and I never 
doubted but that it was for practice there, as I knew he had 
done years before.” 

Mr. Carson had strung up his frame to an attitude of 
upright attention while Jem was speaking ; now the tension 
relaxed, and he sank back in his chair, weak and powerless. 

He rose up again, however, as Jem went on, anxious to 
give every particular which could satisfy the bereaved 
father. 

« I never knew for what he wanted the gun till I was 
444 


Details connected with the Murder 

taken up, — I do not know yet why he wanted it. No one 
would have had me get out of the scrape by implicating an 
old friend, — my father’s old friend, and the father of the 
girl I loved. So I refused to tell Mr. Bridgnorth aught 
about it, and would not have named it now to any one 
but you.” 

Jem’s face became very red at the allusion he made to 
Mary, but his honest, fearless eyes had met Mr. Carson’s 
penetrating gaze unflinchingly, and had carried conviction 
of his innocence and truthfulness; Mr. Carson felt certain 
that he had heard all that Jem could tell. Accordingly he 
turned to Job Legh. 

“ You were in the room the whole time while Barton was 
speaking to me, I think ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” answered Job. 

“ You’ll excuse my asking plain and direct questions ; 
the information I am gaining is really a relief to my mind ; 
I don’t know how, but it is, — will you tell me if you had any 
idea of Barton’s guilt in this matter before ? ” 

“ None whatever, so help me, God ! ” said Job solemnly. 
“ To tell truth (and axing your forgiveness, Jem), I had 
never got quite shut of the notion that Jem here had done it. 
At times I was as clear of his innocence as I was of my 
own ; and, whenever I took to reasoning about it, I saw he 
could not have been the man that did it. Still I never 
thought of Barton.” 

“ And yet by his confession he must have been absent at 
the time,” said Mr. Carson, referring to his slip of paper. 

“ Ay, and for many a day after, — I can’t rightly say how 
long. But still, you see, one’s often blind to many a thing 
that lies right under one’s nose, till it’s pointed out. And 
till I heard what John Barton had to say yon night, I could 
not have seen what reason he had for doing it ; while in the 
case of Jem, any one who looked at Mary Barton might 
have seen a cause for jealousy clear enough.” 

“ Then you believe that Barton had no knowledge of my 
son’s unfortunate ” — he looked at Jem — “ of his attentions to 

445 


Mary Barton 

Mary Barton. This young man, Wilson, has heard of them, 
you see.” 

“ The person who told me said clearly she neither had 
nor would tell Mary’s father,” interposed Jem. “ I don’t 
believe he’d ever heard of it ; he weren’t a man to keep still 
in such a matter, if he had.” 

“ Besides,” said Job, “ the reason he gave on his death- 
bed, so to speak, was enough ; ’specially to those who knew 
him.” 

“ You mean his feelings regarding the treatment of the 
workmen by the masters ; you think he acted from motives 
of revenge, in consequence of the part my son had taken in 
putting down the strike ? ” 

“ Well, sir,” replied Job, “ it’s hard to say : John Barton 
was not a man to take counsel with people; nor did he 
make many words about his doings. So I can only judge 
from his way of thinking and talking in general, never having 
heard him breathe a syllable concerning this matter in 
particular. You see he were sadly put about to make great 
riches and great poverty square with Christ’s Gospel ” — Job 
paused, in order to try and express what was clear enough 
in his own mind, as to the effect produced on John Barton 
by the great and mocking contrasts presented by the varieties 
of human condition. Before he could find suitable words to 
explain his meaning, Mr. Carson spoke. 

“You mean he was an Owenite ; all for equality and 
community of goods, and that kind of absurdity.” 

“No, no ! John Barton was no fool. No need to tell 
him that were all men equal to-night, some would get the 
start by rising an hour earlier to-morrow. Nor yet did he 
care for goods, nor wealth; no man less, so that he could 
get daily bread for him and his ; but what hurt him sore, and 
rankled in him as long as I knew him (and, sir, it rankles in 
many a poor man’s heart far more than the want of any 
creature-comforts, and puts a sting into starvation itself), 
was that those who wore finer clothes, and eat better food, 
and had more money in their pockets, kept him at arm’s 

446 


Details connected with the Murder 

length, and cared not whether his heart was sorry or glad ; 
whether he lived or died, — whether he was bound for heaven 
or hell. It seemed hard to him that a heap of gold should 
part him and his brother so far asunder. For he was a 
loving man before he grew mad with seeing such as he was 
slighted, as if Christ Himself had not been poor. At one 
time, I’ve heard him say, he felt kindly towards every man, 
rich or poor, because he thought they were all men alike. 
But latterly he grew' aggravated with the sorrows and suffer- 
ing that he saw, and which he thought the masters might 
help if they would.” 

“ That’s the notion you’ve all of you got,” said Mr. Carson. 
“ Now, how in the world can we help it ? We cannot 
regulate the demand for labour. No man or set of men can 
do it. It depends on events which God alone can control. 
When there is no market for our goods, we suffer just as 
much as you can do.” 

“ Not as much, I’m sure, sir ; though I’m not given to 
Political Economy, I know that much. I’m wanting in 
learning, I’m aware ; but I can use my eyes. I never see 
the masters getting thin and haggard for want of food; 
I hardly ever see them making much change in their way of 
living, though I don’t doubt they’ve got to do it in bad times. 
But it’s in things for show they cut short ; while for such as 
me, it’s in things for life we’ve to stint. For sure, sir, y^tt? 
own it’s come to a hard pass when a man would give aught 
in the world for work to keep his children from starving, and 
can’t get a bit, if he’s ever so willing to labour. I’m not up 
to talking as John Barton would have done, but that’s clear 
to me, at any rate.” 

“ My good man, just listen to me. Two men live in a 
solitude ; one produces loaves of bread, the other coats, — or 
what you will. Now, would it not be hard if the bread- 
producer were forced to give bread for the coats, whether he 
wanted them »r not, in order to furnish employment to the 
other : that is the simple form of tlie case ; you’ve only to 
multiply the numbers. There will come times of great 

447 


Mary Barton 

changes in the occupation of thousands,' when improvements 
in manufactures and machinery are made. It’s all nonsense 
talking, — it must be so ! ” 

Job Legh pondered a few moments. 

“ It’s true it was a sore time for the hand-loom weavers 
when power-looms came in : them new-fangled things make 
a man’s hfe like a lottery ; and yet I’ll never misdoubt that 
power-looms, and railways, and all such-hke inventions, are 
the gifts of God. I have lived long enough, too, to see that 
it is a part of His plan to send suffering to bring out a higher 
good ; but surely it’s also a part of His plan that so much of 
the burden of the suffering as can be should be lightened by 
those whom it is His pleasure to make happy, and content 
in their own circumstances. Of course it would take a deal 
more thought and wisdom than me, or any other man has, to 
settle out of hand how this should be done. But I’m clear 
about this, when God gives a blessing to be enjoyed. He 
gives it with a duty to be done ; and the duty of the happy 
is to help the suffering to bear their woe.” 

“ Still, facts have proved, and are daily proving, how 
much better it is for every man to be independent of help, 
and self-reliant,” said Mr. Carson thoughtfully. 

“ You can never work facts as you would fixed quantities, 
and say, given two facts, and the product is so and so. God 
has given men feelings and passions which cannot be worked 
into the problem, because they are for ever changing and un- 
certain. God has also made some weak ; not in any one way, 
but in all. One is weak in body, another in mind, another 
in steadiness of purpose, a fourth can’t tell right from wrong, 
and so on ; or if he can tell the right, he wants strength to 
hold by it. Now, to my thinking, them that is strong in any 
of God’s gifts is meant to help the weak, — be hanged to the 
facts ! I ask your pardon, sir ; I can’t rightly explain the 
meaning that is in me. I’m like a tap as won’t run, but 
keeps letting it out drop by drop, so that you’ve no notion of 
the force of what’s within.” 

Job looked and felt very sorrowful at the want of power 
448 


Details connected with the Murder 

in his words, while the feeling within him was so strong 
and clear. 

“What you say is very true, no doubt,” replied Mr. 
Carson; “but how would you bring it to bear upon the 
masters’ conduct, — on my particular case?” added he 
gravely. 

“ I’m not learned enough to argue. Thoughts come into 
my head that I’m sure are as true as Gospel, though maybe 
they don’t follow each other like the Q.E.D of a Proposition. 
The masters has it on their own conscience, — you have it on 
yours, sir, to answer for to God whether you’ve done, and 
are doing, all in your power to hghten the evils that seem 
always to hang on the trades by which you make your 
fortunes. It’s no business of mine, thank God. John 
Barton took the question in hand, and his answer to it was 
NO ! Then he grew bitter and angry, and mad ; and in his 
madness he did a great sin, and wrought a great woe ; and 
repented him with tears of blood, and will go through his 
penance humbly and meekly in t’other place. I’ll be bound. 
I never seed such bitter repentance as his that last 
night.” 

There was a silence of many minutes. Mr. Carson had 
covered his face, and seemed utterly forgetful of their 
presence ; and yet they did not like to disturb him by rising 
to leave the room. 

At last he said, without meeting their sympathetic eyes — 

“ Thank you both for coming, — and for speaking candidly 
to me. I fear, Legh, neither you nor I have convinced each 
other, as to the power, or want of power, in the masters, to 
remedy the evils the men complain of.” 

“ I’m loth to vex you, sir, just now ; but it was not the 
want of power I was talking on ; what we all feel sharpest 
is the want of inclination to try and help the evils which 
come like blights at times over the manufacturing places, 
while we see the masters can stop work and not suffer. If 
we saw the masters try for our sakes to find a remedy, — 
even if they were long about it, — even if they could find no 

449 2 G 


Mary Barton 

help, and at the end of all could only say, ‘ Poor fellows, our 
hearts are sore for ye; we’ve done all we could, and can’t 
find a cure,’ — we’d bear up like men through bad times. No 
one knows till they have tried, what power of bearing Hes in 
them, if once they believe that men are caring for their 
sorrows and will help if they can. If fellow- creatures can 
give nought but tears and brave words, we take our trials 
straight from God, and we know enough of His love to put 
ourselves blind into His hands. You say, our talk has done 
no good. I say it has. I see the view you take of things 
from the place where you stand. I can remember that, 
when the time comes for judging you ; I sha’n’t think any 
longer, does he act right on my views of a thing, but, does he 
act right on his own? It has done me good in that way. 
I’m an old man, and may never see you again ; but I’ll pray 
for you, and think on you and your trials, both of your great 
wealth, and of your son’s cruel death, many and many a day 
to come ; and I’ll ask God to bless both to you now and for 
evermore. Amen. Farewell ! ” 

Jem had maintained a manly and dignified reserve ever 
since he had made his open statement of all he knew. Now 
both the men rose, and bowed low, looking at Mr. Carson 
with the deep human interest they could not fail to take in 
one who had endured and forgiven a deep injury ; and who 
struggled hard, as it was evident he did, to bear up like a 
man under his affliction. 

He bowed low in return to them. Then he suddenly 
came forward and shook them by the hand ; and thus, with- 
out a word more, they parted. 

There are stages in the contemplation and endurance of 
great sorrow, which endow men with the same earnestness 
and clearness of thought that in some of old took the form of 
Prophecy. To those who have large capability of loving and 
suffering, united with great power of firm endurance, there 
comes a time in their woe, when they are lifted out of the 
contemplation of their individual case into a searching in- 
quiry into the nature of their calamity, and the remedy (if 

450 


Details connected with the Murder 

remedy there be) which may prevent its recurrence to others 
as well as to themselves. 

Hence the beautiful, noble efforts which are from time to 
time brought to light, as being continuously made by those 
who have once hung on the cross of agony, in order that 
others may not suffer as they have done ; one of the grandest 
ends which sorrow can accomplish; the sufferer wresthng 
with God’s messenger until a blessing is left behind, not for 
one alone but for generations. 

It took time before the stem nature of Mr. Carson was 
compelled to the recognition of this secret of comfort, and 
that same sternness prevented his reaping any benefit in 
public estimation from the actions he performed; for the 
character is more easily changed than the habits and manners 
originally formed by that character, and to his dying day Mr. 
Carson was considered hard and cold by those who only 
casually saw him, or superficially knew him. But those who 
were admitted into his confidence were aware, that the wish 
that lay nearest to his heart was that none might suffer from 
the cause from which he had suffered; that a perfect 
understanding, and complete confidence and love, might 
exist between masters and men; that the tmth might be 
recognised that the interests of one were the interests of all, 
and, as such, required the consideration and deliberation of 
all; that hence it was most desirable to have educated 
workers, capable of judging, not mere machines of ignorant 
men; and to have them bound to their employers by the 
ties of respect and affection, not by mere money bargains 
alone ; in short, to acknowledge the Spirit of Christ as the 
regulating law between both parties. 

Many of the improvements now in practice in the system 
of employment in Manchester, owe their origin to short, 
earnest sentences spoken by Mr. Carson. Many and many 
yet to be carried into execution, take their birth from that 
stem, thoughtful mind, which submitted to be taught by 
Buffering. 


451 


Mary Barton 


CHAPTEE XXXVIII 

CONCLUSION 

“ Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 

We’ve not proud or soaring wings, 

Our ambition, our content. 

Lies in simple things ; 

Humble voyagers are we 
O’er life’s dim unsoimded sea ; 

Touch us gently, gentle Time t ” 

BaEBY COENWAIiL. ' 

Not many days after John Barton’s funeral was over, all 
was arranged respecting Jem’s appointment at Toronto; and 
the time was fixed for his sailing. It was to take place 
almost immediately : yet much remained to be done ; many 
domestic preparations were to be made ; and one great 
obstacle, anticipated by both Jem and Mary, to be removed. 
This was the opposition they expected from Mrs. Wilson, to 
whom the plan bad never yet been named. 

They were most anxious that their home should continue 
ever to be hers, yet they feared that her disUke to a new 
country might be an insuperable objection to this. At last 
Jem took advantage of an evening of unusual placidity, as 
he sat alone with his mother just before going to bed, to 
broach the subject ; and to bis surprise she acceded w illi ngly 
to bis proposition of her accompanying himself and bis 
wife. 

“To be sure ’Merica is a long way to flit to ; beyond 
London a good bit, I reckon ; and quite in foreign parts ; but 
I’ve never bad no opinion of England, ever since they could 
be such fools as to take up a quiet chap bke thee, and clap 
thee in prison. Where you go. I’ll go. Perhaps in them 
Indian countries they’ll know a well-behaved lad when they 
see him ; ne’er speak a word more, lad. I’ll go.” 

Their path become daily more smooth and easy; the 

452 


Conclusion 

present was clear and practicable, the future was hopeful ; 
they had leisure of mind enough to turn to the past. 

“ Jem 1 ” said Mary to him, one evening as they sat in 
the twilight, talking together in low happy voices till 
Margaret should come to keep Mary company through the 
night, “ Jem ! you’ve never yet told me how you came to 
know about my naughty ways with poor young Mr. Carson.” 
She blushed for shame at the remembrance of her folly, and 
hid her head on his shoulder while he made answer. 

“ Darling, I’m almost loth to tell you ; your aunt Esther 
told me.” 

“ Ah, I remember ! but how did she know ? I was so 
put about that night I did not think of asking her. Where 
did you see her ? I’ve forgotten where she lives.” 

Mary said all this in so open and innocent a manner, 
that Jem felt sure she knew not the truth respecting Esther, 
and he half hesitated to tell her. At length he replied — 

“ Where did you see Esther lately ? When ? Tell me, 
love, for you’ve never named it before, and I can’t make 
it out.” 

“ Oh ! it was that horrible night, which is like a dream.” 
And she told him of Esther’s midnight visit, concluding with, 
“ We must go and see her before we leave, though I don’t 
rightly know where to find her.” 

“ Dearest Mary ” 

“ What, Jem ? ” exclaimed she, alarmed by his hesitation. 

“Your poor aunt Esther has no home: — she’s one of 
them miserable creatures that walk the streets.” And he in 
his turn told of his encounter with Esther, with so many 
details that Mary was forced to be convinced, although her 
heart rebelled against the belief. 

“Jem, lad!” said she vehemently, “we must find her 
out, — we must hunt her up I ” she rose as if she was going 
on the search there and then. 

“ What could we do, darling ? ” asked he, fondly restrain- 
ing her. 

“Do 1 Why I what could we not do, if we could but find 
453 


Mary Barton 

her ? She’s none so happy in her ways, think ye, but what 
she’d turn from them, if any one would lend her a helping 
hand. Don’t hold me, Jem ; this is just the time for such as 
her to be out, and who knows but what I might find her 
close at hand.” 

“ Stay, Mary, for a minute ; I’ll go out now and search 
for her if you wish, though it’s but a wild chase. You must 
not go. It would be better to ask the police to-morrow. But 
if I should find her, how can I make her come with me ? 
Once before she refused, and said she could not break off her 
drinking ways, come what might.” 

“You never will persuade her if you fear and doubt,” 
said Mary, in tears. “ Hope yourself, and trust to the good 
that must be in her. Speak to that, — she has it in her yet ; 
— oh, bring her home, and we will love her so, we’ll make 
her good.” 

“ Yes I ” said Jem, catching Mary’s sanguine spirit ; “ she 
shall go to America with us : and we’ll help her to get rid of 
her sins. I’ll go now, my precious darling, and if I can’t 
find her, it’s but trying the police to-morrow. Take care of 
your own sweet self, Mary,” said he, fondly kissing her before 
he went out. 

It was not to be. Jem wandered far and wide that night, 
but never met Esther. The next day he applied to the police ; 
and at last they recognised under his description of her, a 
woman known to them under the name of the “ Butterfly,” 
from the gaiety of her dress a year or two ago. By their 
help he traced out one of her haunts, a low lodging-house 
behind Peter Street. He and his companion, a kind-hearted 
policeman, were admitted, suspiciously enough, by the land- 
lady, who ushered them into a large garret where twenty or 
thirty people of all ages and both sexes lay and dozed away 
the day, choosing the evening and night for their trades of 
beggary, thieving, or prostitution. 

“ I know the Butterfly was here,” said she, looking round. 
“ She came in, the night before last, and said she had not a 
penny to get a place for shelter ; and that if she was far away 

454 


Conclusion 

in the country she could steal aside and die in a copse, or a 
dough,* hke the wild animals ; but here the pohce would let 
no one alone in the streets, and she wanted a spot to die in, 
in peace. It’s a queer sort of peace we have here ; but that 
night the room was uncommon empty, and I’m not a hard- 
hearted woman (I wish I were, I could ha’ made a good 
thing out of it afore this if I were harder), so I sent her up — 
but she’s not here now, I think.” 

“Was she very bad? ” asked Jem. 

“Ay! nought but skin and bone, with a cough to tear 
her in two.” 

They made some inquiries, and found that in the restless- 
ness of approaching death, she had longed to be once more 
in the open air, and had gone forth — ^where, no one seemed 
to be able to tell. 

Leaving many messages for her, and directions that he 
was to be sent for if either the policeman or the landlady 
obtained any clue to her whereabouts, Jem bent his steps 
towards Mary’s house ; for he had not seen her all that long 
day of search. He told her of his proceedings and want of 
success ; and both were saddened at the recital, and sat silent 
for some time. 

After awhile they began talking over their plans. In a 
day or two, Mary was to give up house, and go and live for 
a week or so with Job Legh, until the time of her marriage, 
which would take place immediately before sailing; they 
talked themselves back into silence and delicious reverie. 
Mary sat by Jem, his arm round her waist, her head on his 
shoulder ; and thought over the scenes which had passed in 
that home she was so soon to leave for ever. 

Suddenly she felt Jem start, and started too without 
knowing why; she tried to see his countenance, but the 
shades of evening had deepened so much she could read no 
expression there. It was turned to the window ; she looked 
and saw a white face pressed against the panes on the out- 
side, gazing intently into the dusky chamber. 

* A.S. “ dough,” a deft of a rock. 

455 


Mary Barton 

While they watched, as if fascinated by the appearance, 
and unable to think or stir, a film came over the bright, 
feverish, glittering eyes outside, and the form sank down to 
the ground without a struggle of instinctive resistance. 

“It is Esther ! ” exclaimed they, both at once. They 
rushed outside ; and, fallen into what appeared simply a heap 
of white or light coloured clothes, fainting or dead, lay the 
poor crushed Butterfly — the once innocent Esther. 

She had come (as a wounded deer drags its heavy limbs 
once more to the green coolness of the lair in which it was 
born, there to die) to see the place familiar to her innocence, 
yet once again before her death. Whether she was indeed 
alive or dead, they knew not now. 

Job came in with Margaret, for it was bedtime. He said 
Esther’s pulse beat a little yet. They carried her upstairs 
and laid her on Mary’s bed, not daring to undress her, lest 
any motion should frighten the trembhng life away ; but it 
was all in vain. 

Towards midnight, she opened wide her eyes and looked 
around on the once familiar room : Job Legh knelt by the 
bed, praying aloud and fervently for her, but he stopped as 
he saw her roused look. She sat up in bed with a sudden 
convulsive motion. 

“ Has it been a dream, then ? ” asked she wildly. Then 
with a habit, which came like instinct even in that awful dying 
hour, her hand sought for a locket which hung concealed in 
her bosom, and, finding that, she knew all was true which had 
befallen her since last she lay an innocent girl on that bed. 

She fell back, and spoke word never more. She held the 
locket containing her child’s hair still in her hand, and once 
or twice she kissed it with a long soft kiss. She cried feebly 
and sadly as long as she had any strength to cry, and then 
she died. 

They laid her in one grave with John Barton. And there 
they lie without name, or initial, or date. Only this verse is 
inscribed upon the stone which covers the remains of these 
two wanderers : 


456 


Conclusion 

Psalm ciii. v. 9. — “ For He will not always chide, neither 
will He keep His anger for ever.” 

I see a long, low, wooden house, with room enough and 
to spare. The old primeval trees are felled and gone for 
many a mile around; one alone remains to overshadow 
the gable-end of the cottage. There is a garden around 
the dwelling, and far beyond that stretches an orchard. The 
glory of an Indian summer is over all, making the heart leap 
at the sight of its gorgeous beauty. 

At the door of the house, looking towards the town, stands 
Mary, watching the return of her husband from his daily 
work ; and while she watches, she listens, smiling — 

“ Clap hands, daddy comes. 

With his pocket full of plums, 

And a cake for Johnnie.” 

Then comes a crow of delight from Johnnie. Then his 
grandmother carries him to the door, and glories in seeing 
him resist his mother’s blandishments to cling to her. 

“ English letters ! 'Twas that made me so late ! ” 

“ Oh, Jem, Jem ! don’t hold them so tight ! What do 
they say ? ” 

“ Why, some good news. Come, give a guess what it is.” 

“ Oh, tell me ! I cannot guess,” said Mary. 

“ Then you give it up, do you ? What do you say, 
mother? ” 

Jane Wilson thought a moment. 

“Will and Margaret are married ? ” asked she. 

“Not exactly, — but very near. The old woman has 
twice the spirit of the young one. Come, Mary, give a 
guess ! ” 

He covered his little boy’s eyes with his hands for an 
instant, significantly, till the baby pushed them down, saying 
in his imperfect way — 

“ Tan’t see.” 

“ There now ! Johnnie can see. Do you guess, Mary ? 

457 


Mary Barton 

“ They’ve done something to Margaret to give her back 
her sight ! ” exclaimed she. 

“ They have. She has been couched, and can see as well 
as ever. She and Will are to be married on the twenty-fifth 
of this month, and he’s bringing her out here next voyage ; 
and Job Legh talks of coming too, — not to see you, Mary, — 
nor you, mother, — nor you, my little hero ” (kissing him), 
“ but to try and pick up a few specimens of Canadian insects. 
Will says. All the compliment is to the earwigs, you see, 
mother?” 

“ Dear Job Legh ! ” said Mary, softly and seriously. 


45 ^ 


LIBBIE MARSH’S THREE ERAS 


BEA I 

valentine’s day 

Last November but one, there was a flitting in our neigh- 
bourhood ; hardly a flitting, after all, for it was only a single 
person changing her place of abode from one lodging to 
another ; and instead of a cart-load of drawers and baskets, 
dressers and beds, with old king clock at the top of all, it 
was only one large wooden chest to be carried after the 
girl, who moved slowly and heavily along the streets, listless 
and depressed, more from the state of her mind than of her 
body. It was Libbie Marsh, who had been obliged to quit 
her room in Dean Street, because the acquaintances whom 
she had been living with were leaving Manchester. She 
tried to think herself fortunate in having met with lodgings 
rather more out of the town, and with those who were known 
to be respectable ; she did indeed try to be contented, but, 
in spite of her reason, the old feeling of desolation came over 
her, as she was now about to be thrown again entirely among 
strangers. 

No. 2. Court, Albemarle Street, was reached at last, 

and the pace, slow as it was, slackened as she drew near the 
spot where she was to be left by the man who carried her 
box ; for, trivial as her acquaintance, with him was, he was 
not quite a stranger, as every one else was, peering out of their 
open doors, and satisfying themselves it was only “ Dixon’s 
new lodger.” 


459 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

Dixon’s house was the last on the left-hand side of the 
court. A high dead brick wall connected it with its opposite 
neighbour. All the dwellings were of the same monotonous 
pattern, and one side of the court looked at its exact likeness 
opposite, as if it were seeing itself in a looking-glass. 

Dixon’s house was shut up, and the key left next door ; 
but the woman in whose charge it was left knew that Libbie 
was expected, and came forward to say a few explanatory 
words, to unlock the door, and stir the dull grey ashes that 
were lazily burning in the grate ; and then she returned to 
her own house, leaving poor Libbie standing alone with the 
great big chest in the middle of the house-place floor, with 
no one to say a word to (even a commonplace remark would 
have been better than this dull silence), that could help her 
to repel the fast-coming tears. 

Dixon and his wife, and their eldest girl, worked in 
factories, and were absent all day from 'the house; the 
youngest child, also a little girl, was boarded out on the 
week-days at the neighbour’s, where the door-key was 
deposited ; but, although busy making dirt-pies at the entrance 
to the court when Libbie came in, she was too young to 
care much about her parents’ new lodger. Libbie knew that 
she was to sleep with the elder girl in the front bedroom ; 
but, as you may fancy, it seemed a liberty even to go upstairs 
to take off her things, when no one was at home to marshal 
the way up the ladder-like steps. So she could only take off 
her bonnet and sit down, and gaze at the now blazing fire, 
and think sadly on the past, and on the lonely creature she 
was in this wide world — father and mother gone, her little 
brother long since dead — he would have been more than 
nineteen had he been alive, but she only thought of him as 
the darling baby ; her only friends (to call friends) living far 
away at their new house ; her employers, kind enough people 
in their way, but too rapidly twirling round on this bustling 
earth to have leisure to think of the little workwoman, 
excepting when they wanted gowns turned, carpets mended, 
or household linen darned; and hardly even the natural 

460 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

though hidden hope of a young girl’s heart to cheer her on 
with the bright visions of a home of her own at some future 
day, where, loving and beloved, she might fulfil a woman’s 
dearest duties. 

For Libbie was very plain, as she had known so long 
that the consciousness of it had ceased to mortify her. You 
can hardly live in Manchester without having some idea of 
your personal appearance ; the factory lads and lasses take 
good care of that ; and if you meet them at the hours when 
they are pouring out of the mills, you are sure to hear a 
good number of truths, some of them combined with such a 
spirit of impudent fun that you can scarcely keep from 
laughing, even at the joke against yourself. Libbie had 
often and often been greeted by such questions as — “ How 
long is it since you were a beauty ? ” “ What would you take 
a day to stand in the fields to scare away the birds ? ” &c., 
for her to finger under any impression as to her looks. 

While she was thus musing, and quietly crying, under 
the pictures her fancy had conjured up, the Dixons came 
dropping in, and surprised her with her wet cheeks and 
quivering lips. 

She almost wished to have the stillness again that had so 
oppressed her an hour ago, they talked and laughed so loudly 
and so much, and bustled about so noisily over everything 
they did. Dixon took hold of one iron handle of her box, 
and helped her to bump it upstairs, while his daughter Anne 
followed to see the unpacking, and what sort of clothes 
“ little sewing body had gotten.” Mrs. Dixon rattled out 
her tea-things, and put the kettle on, fetched home her 
youngest child, which added to the commotion. Then she 
called Anne downstairs, and sent her for this thing and that : 
eggs to be put to the cream, it was so thin ; ham, to give a 
relish to the bread and butter ; some new bread, hot, if she 
could get it. Libbie heard all these orders, given at full 
pitch of Mrs. Dixon’s voice, and wondered at their extrava- 
gance, so different from the habits of the place where she 
had last lodged. But they were fine spinners, in the receipt 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

of good wages ; and confined all day in an atmosphere 
ranging from seventy-five to eighty degrees. They had lost 
all natural, healthy appetite for simple food, and, having no 
higher tastes, found their greatest enjoyment in their 
luxurious meals. 

When tea was ready, Libbie was called downstairs, with 
a rough but hearty invitation, to share their meal ; she sat 
mutely at the comer of the tea-table, while they went on 
with their own conversation about people and things she 
knew nothing about, till at length she ventured to ask for a 
candle, to go and finish her unpacking before bedtime, as she 
had to go out sewing for several succeeding days. But, once 
in the comparative peace of her bedroom, her energy failed 
her, and she contented herself with locking her Noah’s ark 
of a chest, and put out her candle, and went to sit by the 
window, and gaze out at the bright heavens ; for ever and 
ever “ the blue sky, that bends over all,” sheds' down a feeling 
of sympathy with the sorrowful at the solemn hours when 
the ceaseless stars are seen to pace its depths. 

By-and-by her eye fell down to gazing at the corresponding 
window to her own on the opposite side of the cornet. It 
was lighted, but the blind was drawn down : upon the blind 
she saw, first unconsciously, the constant weary motion of a 
little spectral shadow, a child’s hand and arm — no more ; 
long, thin fingers hanging down from the wrist, while the 
arm moved up and down, as if keeping time to the heavy 
pulses of dull pain. She could not help hoping that sleep 
would soon come to still that incessant, feeble motion ; and 
now and then it did cease, as if the little creature had dropped 
into a slumber from very weariness ; but presently the arm 
jerked up with the fingers clenched, as if with a sudden start 
of agony. When Anne came up to bed, Libbie was still 
sitting, watching the shadow, and she directly asked to whom 
it belonged. 

“ It will be Margaret Hall’s lad. Last summer, when it 
was so hot, there was no biding with the window shut at 
night, and theirs was open too ; and many’s the time he has 

462 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

waked me with his moans; they say he’s been better sin’ 
cold weather came.” 

“Is he always in bed? Whatten ails him?” asked 
Libbie. 

“Summat’s amiss wi’ his backbone, folks say; he’s 
better and worse, like. He’s a nice little chap enough, and 
his mother’s not that bad either ; only my mother and her 
had words, so now we don’t speak.” 

Libbie went on watching, and, when she next spoke, to 
ask who and what his mother was, Anne Dixon was fast 
asleep. 

Time passed away, and as usual unveiled the hidden 
things. Libbie found out that Margaret Hall was a widow, 
who earned her living as a washerwoman; that the little 
suffering lad was her only child, her dearly beloved. That, 
while she scolded pretty nearly everybody else, “till her 
name was up ” in the neighbourhood for a termagant, to him 
she was evidently most tender and gentle. He lay alone on 
his little bed, near the window, through the day, while she 
was away toiling for a livelihood. But when Libbie had 
plain sewing to do at her lodgings, instead of going out to 
sew, she used to watch from her bedroom window for the 
time when the shadows opposite, by their mute gestures, 
told that the mother had returned to bend over her child, to 
smooth his pillow, to alter his position, to get him his nightly 
cup of tea. And often in the night Libbie could not help 
rising gently from bed, to see if the little arm was waving 
up and down, as was his accustomed habit when sleepless 
from pain. 

Libbie had a good deal of sewing to do at home that 
winter, and, whenever it was not so cold as to benumb her 
fingers, she took it upstairs, in order to watch the little lad 
in her few odd moments of pause. On his better days he 
could sit up enough to peep out of his window, and she found 
he liked to look at her. Presently she ventured to nod to 
him across the court; and his faint smile, and ready nod 
back again, showed that this gave him pleasure. I think she 

463 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

would have been encouraged by this smile to have proceeded 
to a speaking acquaintance, if it bad not been for bis terrible 
mother, to whom it seemed to be irritation enough to know 
that Libbie was a lodger at the Dixons’ for her to talk at her 
whenever they encountered each other, and to lie evidently 
in wait for some good opportunity of abuse. 

With her constant interest in him, Libbie soon discovered 
bis great want of an object on which to occupy bis thoughts, 
and which might distract bis attention, when alone through 
the long day, from the pain he endured. He was very fond 
of flowers. It was November when she had first removed 
to her lodgings, but it had been very mild weather, and a 
few flowers yet lingered in the gardens, which the country 
people gathered into nosegays, and brought on market-days 
into Manchester. His mother had brought him a bunch of 
Michaelmas daisies the very day Libbie had become a neigh- 
bour, and she watched their history. He put them first in 
an old teapot, of which the spout was broken off and the lid 
lost; and he daily replenished the teapot from the jug of 
water his mother left near him to quench his feverish thirst. 
By-and-by, one or two of the constellation of hlac stars faded, 
and then the time he had hitherto spent in admiring, almost 
caressing them, was devoted to cutting off those flowers whose 
decay marred the beauty of the nosegay. It took him half 
the morning, with his feeble, languid motions, and his 
cumbrous old scissors, to trim up his diminished darlings. 
Then at last he seemed to think he had better preserve the 
few that remained by drying them ; so they were carefully 
put between the leaves of the old Bible ; and then, whenever 
a better day came, when he had strength enough to lift the 
ponderous book, he used to open the pages to look at his 
flower friends. In winter he could have no more living 
flowers to tend. 

Libbie thought and thought, till at last an idea flashed 
upon her mind, that often made a happy smile steal over her 
face as she stitched away, and that cheered her through the 
solitary winter — for solitary it continued to be, though the 

464 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

Dixons were very good sort of people, never pressed her for 
payment, if she had had but little work to do that week ; 
never grudged her a share of their extravagant meals, which 
were far more luxurious than she could have met with any- 
where else, for her previously agreed payment in case of 
working at home ; and they would fain have taught her to 
drink rum in her tea, assuring her that she should have it 
for nothing and welcome. But they were too touchy, too 
prosperous, too much absorbed in themselves, to take off 
Libbie’s feeling of solitariness ; not half as much as the little 
face by day, and the shadow by night, of him with whom 
she had never yet exchanged a word. 

Her idea was this : her mother came from the east of 
England, where, as perhaps you know, they have the pretty 
custom of sending presents on St. Valentine’s day, with the 
donor’s name unknown, and, of course, the mystery con- 
stitutes half the enjoyment. The fourteenth of February 
was Libbie’s birthday too, and many a year, in the happy 
days of old, had her mother delighted to surprise her with 
some little gift, of which she more than half guessed the 
giver, although each Valentine’s day the manner of its arrival 
was varied. Since then the fourteenth of February had been 
the dreariest of all the year because the most haunted by 
memory of departed happiness. But now, this year, if she 
could not have the old gladness of heart herself, she would 
try and brighten the life of another. She would save, and 
she would screw, but she would buy a canary and a cage for 
that poor little laddie opposite, who wore out his monotonous 
life with so few pleasures and so much pain. 

I doubt I may not tell you here of the anxieties and the 
fears, of the hopes and the self-sacrifices — all, perhaps, small 
in the tangible effect as the widow’s mite, yet not the less 
marked by the viewless angels who go about continually 
among us — which varied Libbie’s life before she accompHshed 
her purpose. It is enough to say it was accomplished. The 
very day before the fourteenth she found time to go with her 
half-guinea to a barber’s who lived near Albemarle Street, 

4C5 2 H 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

and who was famous for his stock of singing-birds. There 
are enthusiasts about all sorts of things, both good and bad, 
and many of the weavers in Manchester know and care more 
about birds than any one would easily credit. Stubborn, 
silent, reserved men on many things, you have only to touch 
on the subject of birds to light up their faces with bright- 
ness. They will tell you who won the prizes at the last 
canary show, where the prize birds may be seen, and give 
you all the details of those funny, but pretty and interesting 
mimicries of great people’s cattle shows. Among these 
amateurs, Emanuel Morris, the barber, was an oracle. 

He took Libbie into his little back room, used for private 
shaving of modest men, who did not care to be exhibited in 
the front shop decked out in the full glories of lather ; and 
which was hung round with birds in rude wicker cages, with 
the exception of those who had won prizes, and were conse- 
quently honoured with gilt-wire prisons. The longer and 
thinner the body of the bird was, the more admiration it 
received, as far as external beauty went; and when, in 
addition to this, the colour was deep and clear, and its notes 
strong and varied, the more did Emanuel dwell upon its 
perfections. But these were all prize birds ; and, on inquiry, 
Libbie heard, with some little sinking at heart, that their 
price ran from one to two guineas. 

“I’m not over-particular as to shape and colour,” said 
she, “ I should like a good singer, that’s all ! ” 

She dropped a little in Emanuel’s estimation. However, 
he showed her his good singers, but all were above Libbie’s 
means. 

“ After all, I don’t think I care so much about the singing 
very loud; it’s but a noise after all, and sometimes noise 
fidgets folks.” 

“ They must be nesh folks as is put out with the singing 
o’ birds,” replied Emanuel, rather affronted. 

“ It’s for one who is poorly,” said. Libbie deprecatingly. 

“ Well,” said he, as if considering the matter, “ folk that 
are cranky often take more to them as shows ’em love than 

466 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

to them as is clever and gifted. Happen yo’d rather have 
this’n,” opening a cage door, and calling to a dull-coloured 
bird, sitting moped up in a corner, “ Here — Jupiter, Jupiter ! ” 

The bird smoothed its feathers in an instant, and, utter- 
ing a little note of delight, flew to Emanuel, putting his beak 
to his hps, as if kissing him, and then, perching on his head, 
it began a gurgling warble of pleasure, not by any means so 
varied or so clear as the song of the others, but which pleased 
Libbie more ; for she was always one to find out she liked 
the gooseberries that were accessible, better than the grapes 
that were beyond her reach. The price, too, was just right, 
sp she gladly took possession of the cage, and hid it under 
her cloak, preparatory to carrying it home. Emanuel mean- 
while was giving her directions as to its food, with all the 
minuteness of one loving his subject. 

“ Will it soon get to know any one ? ” asked she. 

“ Give him two days only, and you and he’ll be as thick 
as him and me are now. You’ve only to open his door, and 
call him, and he’ll follow you round the room ; but he’ll first 
kiss you, and then perch on your head. He only wants 
laming, which I have no time to give him, to do many 
another accomplishment.” 

“ What’s his name ? I did not rightly catch it.” 

“ Jupiter — it’s not common ; but the town’s o’errun with 
Bobbies and Dickies, and as my birds are thought a bit out 
o’ the way, I like to have better names for ’em, so I just 
picked a few out o’ my lad’s school-books. It’s just as ready, 
when you’re used to it, to say Jupiter as Dicky. 

“ I could bring my tongue round to Peter better ; would 
he answer to Peter ? ” asked Libbie, now on the point of de- 
parting. 

“ Happen he might ; but I think he’d come readier to the 
three syllables.” 

On Valentine’s day, Jupiter’s cage was decked round with 
ivy leaves, making quite a pretty wreath on the wicker work ; 
and to one of them was pinned a slip of paper, with these 
words, written in Libbie’ s best round hand — 

467 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

“ From your faithful Valentine. Please take notice his 
name is Peter, and he’ll come if you call him, after a bit.” 

But little work did Libbie do that afternoon, she was so 
engaged in watching for the messenger who was to bear her 
present to her little Valentine, and run away as soon as he 
had delivered up the canary, and explained to whom it was 
sent. 

At last he came; then there was a pause before the 
woman of the house was at liberty to take it upstairs. Then 
Libbie saw the little face flush up into a bright colour, the 
feeble hands tremble with delighted eagerness, the head bent 
down to try and make out the writing (beyond his power, 
poor lad, to read), the rapturous turning round of the cage in 
order to see the canary in every point of view, head, tail, 
wings, and feet; an intention in which Jupiter, in his 
uneasiness at being again among strangers, did not second, 
for he hopped round so as continually to present a full front to 
the boy. It was a source of never- wearying delight to the 
little fellow, till daylight closed in; he evidently forgot to 
wonder who had sent it him, in his gladness at his possession 
of such a treasure ; and when the shadow of his mother 
darkened on the blind, and the bird had been exhibited, 
Libbie saw her do what, with all her tenderness, seemed 
rarely to have entered into her thoughts — she bent down 
and kissed her boy, in a mother’s sympathy with the joy of 
her child. 

The canary was placed for the night between the little 
bed and window; and when Libbie rose once, to take her 
accustomed peep, she saw the little arm put fondly round the 
cage, as if embracing his new treasure even in his sleep. 
How Jupiter slept this first night is quite another thing. 

So ended the first day in Libbie’s three eras in last year. 


468 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 


ERA II 

WHITSUNTIDE 

The brightest, fullest daylight poured down into No. 2 — ^ — 
Court, Albemarle Street, and the heat, even at the early hour 
of five, as at the noontide on the June days of many years 
past. 

The court seemed alive, and merry with voices and 
laughter. The bedroom windows were open wide, and had 
been so all night, on account of the heat; and every now 
and then you might see a head and a pair of shoulders, 
simply encased in shirt sleeves, popped out, and you might 
hear the inquiry passed from one to the other — 

“ Well, Jack, and where art thee bound for ? ” 

“ Dunham ? ” 

“ Why, what an old-fashioned chap thou be’st. Thy 
grandad afore thee went to Dunham : but thou wert always 
a slow coach. I’m off to Alderley, me and my missis.” 

“ Ay, that’s because there’s only thee and thy missis. 
Wait till thou hast gotten four childer, like me, and thou’lt 
be glad enough to take ’em to Dunham, oud-fashioned way, 
for fourpence apiece.” 

“I’d still go to Alderley; I’d not be bothered with my 
children ; they should keep house at home.” 

A pair of hands, the person to whom they belonged 
invisible, boxed his ears on this last speech, in a very spirited 
though playful manner, and the neighbours all laughed at the 
surprised look of the speaker, at this assault from an unseen 
foe. The man who had been holding conversation with him 
cried out 

“ Sarved him right, Mrs. Slater; he knows nought about 
it yet : but when he gets them he’ll be as loth to leave the 
babbies at home on a Whitsuntide as any on us. We shall 
live to see him in Dunham Park yet, wi’ twins in his arms, 

469 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

and another pair on ’em clutching at daddy’s coat tails, let 
alone your share of youngsters, missis.” 

At this moment our friend Libbie appeared at her window, 
and Mrs. Slater, who had taken her discomfited husband’s 
place, called out — — 

“ Elizabeth Marsh, where are Dixons and you bound to ? ” 

“ Dixons are not up yet ; he said last night he’d take his 
holiday out in lying in bed. I’m going to the old-fashioned 
place, Dunham.” 

“ Thou art never going by thyself, moping ! ” 

“ No ; I’m going with Margaret Hall and her lad,” replied 
Libbie, hastily withdrawing from the window, in order to 
avoid hearing any remarks on the associates she had chosen 
for her day of pleasure — the scold of the neighbourhood, and 
her sickly, ailing child I 

But Jupiter might have been a dove, and his ivy leaves 
an oUve branch, for the peace he had brought, the happiness 
he had caused, to three individuals at least. For of course it 
could not long be a mystery who had sent little Frank Hall 
his valentine ; nor could his mother long entertain her hard 
manner towards one who had given her child a new 
pleasure. She was shy, and she was proud, and for some 
time she struggled against the natural desire of manifesting 
her gratitude ; but one evening, when Libbie was returning 
home, with a bundle of work half as large as herself, as 
she dragged herself along through the heated streets, she 
was overtaken by Margaret Hall, her burden gently pulled 
from her, and her way home shortened, and her weary spirits 
soothed and cheered, by the outpourings of Margaret’s heart ; 
for, the barrier of reserve once broken down, she had much 
to say, to thank her for days of amusement and happy 
employment for her lad, to speak of his gratitude, to tell 
of her hopes and fears — the hopes and fears that made up 
the dates of her life. From that time, Libbie lost her awe of 
the termagant in interest for the mother, whose all was 
ventured in so frail a bark. From this time Libbie was a 
fast friend with both mother and son, planning mitigations 

470 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

for the sorrowful days of the latter as eagerly as poor 
Margaret Hall, and with far more success. His life had 
flickered up under the charm and excitement of the last few 
months. He even seemed strong enough to undertake the 
journey to Dunham, which Libbie had arranged as a 
Whitsuntide treat, and for which she and his mother had 
been hoarding up for several weeks. The canal boat left 
Knott-mill at six, and it was now past five; so Libbie let 
herself out very gently, and went across to her friends. She 
knocked at the door of their lodging-room, and, without 
waiting for an answer, entered. 

Franky’s face was flushed, and he was trembling with 
excitement — partly with pleasure, but partly with some eager 
wish not yet granted. 

“ He wants sore to take Peter with him,” said his mother 
to Libbie, as if referring the matter to her. The boy looked 
imploringly at her. 

“ He would like it, I know ; for one thing, he’d miss me 
sadly, and chirrup for me all day long, he’d be so lonely. 
I could not be half so happy a-thinking on him, left alone 
here by himself. Then, Libbie, he’s just like a Christian, so 
fond of flowers and green leaves, and them sort of things. 
He chirrups to me so when mother brings me a pennyworth 
of wall-flowers to put round his cage. He would talk if he 
could, you know ; but I can tell what he means quite as well 
as if he spoke. Do let Peter go, Libbie ; I’ll carry him in 
my own arms.” 

So Jupiter was allowed to be of the party. Now Libbie 
had overcome the great difficulty of conveying Franky to the 
boat, by offering to “slay” for a coach, and the shouts and 
exclamations of the neighbours told them that their convey- 
ance awaited them at the bottom of the court. His mother 
carried Franky, light in weight, though heavy in helplessness, 
and he would hold^he cage, believing that he was redeeming 
his pledge, that Peter should be a trouble to no one. 
Libbie proceeded to arrange the bundle containing their 
dinner, as a support in the corner of the coach. The 

471 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

neighbours came out with many blunt speeches, and more 
kindly wishes, and one or two of them would have reheved 
Margaret of her burden, if she would have allowed it. The 
presence of that little cripple fellow seemed to obliterate all 
the angry feelings which had existed between his mother and 
her neighbours, and which had formed the politics of that 
little court for many a day. 

And now they were fairly off! Franky bit his lips in 
attempted endurance of the pain the motion caused him ; 
he winced and shrank, until they were fairly on a macada- 
mised thoroughfare, when he closed his eyes, and seemed 
desirous of a few minutes’ rest. Libbie fell very shy, and 
very much afraid of being seen by her employers, “ set up 
in a coach ! ” and so she hid herself in a corner, and made 
herself as small as possible; while Mrs. Hall had exactly 
the opposite feeling, and was delighted to stand up, stretch- 
ing out of the window, and nodding to pretty nearly every 
one they met or passed on the footpaths; and they were 
not a few, for the streets were quite gay, even at that early 
hour, with parties going to this or that railway station, or 
to the boats which crowded the canals on this bright hohday 
week ; and almost every one they met seemed to enter into 
Mrs. Hall’s exhilaration of feeling, and had a smile or nod in 
return. At last she plumped down by Libbie, and exclaimed, 
“ I never was in a coach but once afore, and that was when 
I was a-going to be married. It’s like heaven ; and all done 
over with such beautiful gimp, too 1 ” continued she, admir- 
ing the lining of the vehicle. Jupiter did not enjoy it so 
much. 

As if the holiday time, the lovely weather, and the “ sweet 
•hour of prime ” had a genial influence, as no doubt they have, 
everybody’s heart seemed softened towards poor Franky. 
The driver lifted him out with the tenderness of strength, 
and bore him carefully down to the boat ; the people then 
made way, and gave him the best seat in their power — or 
rather I should call it a couch, for they saw he was weary, 
and insisted on his lying down — an attitude he would have 

472 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

been ashamed to assume without the protection of his mother 
and Libbie, who now appeared, bearing their baskets and 
carrying Peter. 

Away the boat went, to make room for others ; for every 
conveyance, both by land and water, is in requisition in 
Whitsun- week, to give the hard- worked crowds the oppor- 
tunity of enjoying the charms of the country. Even every 
standing-place in the canal packets was occupied, and, as they 
glided along, the banks were lined with people, who seemed 
to find it object enough to watch the boats go by, packed 
close and full with happy beings brimming with anticipations 
of a day’s pleasure. The country through which they passed 
is as uninteresting as can well be imagined ; but still it is the 
country ; and the screams of delight from the children, and 
the low laughs of pleasure from the parents, at every blos- 
soming tree that trailed its wreath against some cottage wall, 
or at the tufts of late primroses which lingered in the cool 
depths of grass along the canal hanks ; the thorough relish 
of everything, as if dreading to let the least circumstance of 
this happy day pass over without its due appreciation, made 
the time seem all too short, although it took two hours to 
arrive at a place only eight miles from Manchester. Even 
Franky, with all his impatience to see Dunham woods (which 
I think he confused with London, believing both to be paved 
with gold), enjoyed the easy motion of the boat so much, 
floating along, while pictures moved before him, that he 
regretted when the time came for landing among the soft, 
green meadows, that came sloping down to the dancing 
water’s brim. His fellow-passengers carried him to the 
park, and refused all payment, although his mother had 
laid by sixpence on purpose, as a recompense for this 
service. 

“ Oh, Libbie, how beautiful ! Oh, mother, mother; is the 
whole world out of Manchester as beautiful as this ? I did 
not know trees were like this ! Such green homes for birds ! 
Look, Peter ! would not you like to be there, up among those 
boughs ? But I can’t let you go, you know, because you’re 

473 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

my little bird-brother, and I should be quite lost without 
you.” 

They spread a shawl upon the fine mossy turf, at the root 
of a beech-tree, which made a sort of natural couch, and there 
they laid him and bade him rest, in spite of the delight which 
made him believe himself capable of any exertion. Where 
he lay — always holding Jupiter’s cage, and often talking to 
him as to a playfellow — he was on the verge of a green area, 
shut in by magnificent trees, in all the glory of their early 
foliage, before the summer heats had deepened their verdure 
into one rich, monotonous tint. And hither came party after 
party; old men and maidens, young men and children — 
whole families trooped along after the guiding fathers, who 
bore the youngest in their arms, or astride upon their backs, 
while they turned round occasionally to the wives, with whom 
they shared some fond local remembrance. For years has 
Dunham Park been the favourite resort of the Manchester 
workpeople ; for more years than I can tell ; probably ever 
since “ the Duke,” by his canals, opened out the system of 
cheap travelling. Its scenery, too, which presents such a 
complete contrast to the whirl and turmoil of Manchester: 
so thoroughly woodland, with its ancestral trees (here and 
there lightning-blanched) ; its “ verdurous walls ” ; its grassy 
walks leading far away into some glade, where you start at 
the rabbit rusthng among the last year’s fern, and where the 
wood-pigeon’s call seems the only fitting and accordant 
sound. Depend upon it, this complete sylvan repose, this 
accessible quiet, this lapping the soul in green images of the 
country, forms the most complete contrast to a town’s- 
person, and consequently has over such the greatest power 
of charm. 

Presently Libbie found out she was very hungry. Now 
they were but provided with dinner, which was, of course, to 
be eaten as near twelve o’clock as might be ; and Margaret 
Hall, in her prudence, asked a working-man near to tell her 
what o’clock it was. 

“ Nay,” said he, “ I’ll ne’er look at clock or watch to-day. 

474 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

I’ll not spoil my pleasure by finding out how fast it’s going 
away. If thou’rt hungry, eat. I make my own dinner-hour, 
and I have eaten mine an hour ago.” 

So they had their veal pies, and then found out it was 
only about half-past ten o’clock; by so many pleasurable 
events had that morning been marked. But such was their 
buoyancy of spirits, that they only enjoyed their mistake, 
and joined in the general laugh against the man who had 
eaten his dinner somewhere about nine. He laughed most 
heartily of all, till, suddenly stopping, he said — 

“ I must not go on at this rate ; laughing gives one such 
an appetite.” 

“ Oh, if that’s all,” said a merry-looking man lying at full 
length, and brushing the fresh scent out of the grass, while 
two or three little children tumbled over him, and crept about 
him, as kittens or puppies frolic with their parents, “ if that’s 
all, we’ll have a subscription of eatables for them improvident 
folk as have eaten their dinner for their breakfast. Here’s a 
sausage pasty and a handful of nuts for my share. Bring 
round the hat. Bob, and see what the company will give.” 

Bob carried out the joke, much to little Franky’s amuse- 
ment ; and no one was so churlish as to refuse, although the 
contributions varied from a peppermint drop up to a veal pie 
and a sausage pasty. 

“ It’s a thriving trade,” said Bob, as he emptied his hatful 
of provisions on the grass by Libbie’s side. “ Besides, it’s 
tiptop, too, to live on the public. Hark ! what is that ? ” 

The laughter and the chat were suddenly hushed, and 
mothers told their little ones to listen — as, far away in the 
distance, now sinking and falling, now swelling and clear, 
came a ringing peal of children’s voices, blended together in 
one of those psalm tunes which we are all of us familiar with, 
and which bring to mind the old, old days, when we, as won- 
dering children, were first led to worship “ Our Father ” by 
those beloved ones who have since gone to the more perfect 
worship. Holy was that distant choral praise, even to the 
most thoughtless; and when it, in fact, was ended, in the 

475 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

instant’s pause, during which the ear awaits the repetition 
of the air, they caught the noontide hum and buzz of the 
myriads of insects who danced away their lives in the 
glorious day ; they heard the swaying of the mighty woods 
in the soft but resistless breeze, and then again once more 
burst forth the merry jests and the shouts of childhood ; and 
again the elder ones resumed their happy talk, as they lay or 
sat “ under the greenwood tree.” Fresh parties came drop- 
ping in ; some laden with wild flowers — almost with branches 
of hawthorn, indeed ; while one or two had made prizes of 
the earliest dog-roses, and had cast away campion, stitch- 
wort, ragged robin, all to keep the lady of the hedges from 
being obscured or hidden by the community. 

One after another drew near to Franky, and looked on 
with interest as he lay sorting the flowers given to him. 
Happy parents stood by, with their household bands around 
them, in Fealth and comeliness, and felt the sad prophecy of 
those shrivelled limbs, those wasted fingers, those lamp-like 
eyes, with their bright, dark lustre. His mother was too 
eagerly watching his happiness to read the meaning of those 
grave looks, but Libbie saw them and understood them ; and 
a chill shudder went through her, even on that day, as she 
thought on the future. 

“ Ay I I thought we should give you a start ! ” 

A start they did give, with their terrible slap on Libbie’s 
back, as she sat idly grouping flowers, and following out her 
sorrowful thoughts. It was the Dixons. Instead of keeping 
their holiday by lying in bed, they and their children had 
roused themselves, and had come by the omnibus to the 
nearest point. For an instant the meeting was an awkward 
one, on account of the feud between Margaret HaU and Mrs. 
Dixon, but there was no long resisting of kindly mother 
Nature’s soothings, at that holiday time, and in that lonely 
tranquil spot ; or if they could have been unheeded, the sight 
of Franky would have awed every angry feeling into rest, so 
changed was he since the Dixons had last seen him; and 
since he had been the Puck or Bobin Goodfellow of the 

476 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

neighbourhood, whose marbles were always rolling under 
other people’s feet, and whose top-strings were always hang- 
ing in nooses to catch the unwary. Yes, he, the feeble, mild, 
almost girlish-looking lad had once been a merry, happy 
rogue, and as such often cuffed by Mrs. Dixon, the very Mrs. 
Dixon who now stood gazing with the tears in her eyes. 
Could she, in sight of him, the changed, the fading, keep up 
a quarrel with his mother ? 

“ How long hast thou been here ? ” asked Dixon. 

“ Welly on for all day,” answered Libbie. 

“ Hast never been to see the deer, or the king and queen 
oaks ? Lord, how stupid.” 

His wife pinched his arm, to remind him of Franky’s 
helpless condition, which of course tethered the otherwise 
willing feet. But Dixon had a remedy. He called Bob, and 
one or two others ; and, each taking a comer of the strong 
plaid shawl, they slung Franky as in a hammock, and thus 
carried him merrily along, down the wood paths, over the 
smooth, grassy turf, while the glimmering shine and shadow 
fell on his upturned face. The women walked behind, talking, 
loitering along, always in sight of the hammock ; now picking 
up some green treasure from the ground, now catching at 
the low hanging branches of the horse-chestnut. The soul 
grew much on this day, and in these woods, and all uncon- 
sciously, as souls do grow. They followed Franky’s hammock- 
bearers up a grassy knoll, on the top of which stood a group 
of pine trees, whose stems looked like dark red gold in the 
sunbeams. They had taken Franky there to show him 
Manchester, far away in the blue plain, against which the 
woodland foreground cut with a soft clear line. Far, far 
away in the distance, on that flat plain, you might see the 
motionless cloud of smoke hanging over a great town, and 
that was Manchester — ugly, smoky Manchester ; dear busy, 
earnest, noble-working Manchester ; where their children had 
been born, and where, perhaps, some lay buried ; where their 
homes were, and where God had cast their lives, and told 
them to work out their destiny. 

477 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

“Hurrah! for oud sruoke-jack ! ” cried Bob, putting 
Franky softly down on the grass, before he whirled his hat 
round, preparatory to a shout. “ Hurrah 1 hurrah 1 ” from all 
the men. “ There’s the rim of my hat lying hke a quoit 
yonder,” observed Bob quietly, as he replaced his brimless 
hat on his head with the gravity of a judge. 

“ Here’s the Sunday-school children a-coming to sit on 
this shady side, and have their buns and milk. Hark 1 they’re 
singing the infant-school grace.” 

They sat close at hand, so that Franky could hear the 
words they sang, in rings of children, making, in their gay 
summer prints, newly donned for that week, garlands of 
little faces, all happy and bright upon that green hill-side. 
One little “ dot ” of a girl came shyly behind Franky, whom 
she had long been watcliing, and threw her half-bun at his 
side, and then ran away and hid herself, in very shame at 
the boldness of her own sweet impulse. She kept peeping 
from her screen at Franky all the time ; and he meanwhile 
was almost too much pleased and happy to eat; the world 
was so beautiful, and men, women, and children all so tender 
and kind ; so softened, in fact, by the beauty of this earth, so 
unconsciously touched by the spirit of love, which was the 
Creator of this lovely earth. But the day drew to an end; 
the heat declined ; the birds once more began their warbhngs ; 
the fresh scents again hung about plant, and tree, and grass, 
betokening the fragrant presence of the reviving dew, and — 
the boat time was near. As they trod the meadow-path once 
more, they were joined by many a party they had encountered 
during the day, all abounding in happiness, all full of the 
day’s adventures. Long-cherished quarrels had been for- 
gotten, new friendships formed. Fresh tastes and higher 
delights had been imparted that day. We have all of us our 
look, now and then, called up by some noble or loving 
thought (our highest on earth), which will be our Ukeness in 
heaven. I can catch the glance on many a face, the glancing 
light of the cloud of glory from heaven, “ which is our home.” 
That look was present on many a hard-worked, wrinkled 

478 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

countenance, as they turned backwards to catch a longing 
lingering look at Dunham woods, fast deepening into black- 
ness of night, but whose memory was to haunt, in greenness 
and freshness, many a loom, and workshop, and factory, with 
images of peace and beauty. 

That night, as Libbie lay awake, revolving the incidents 
of the day, she caught Franky’s voice through the open 
windows. Instead of the frequent moan of pain, he was 
trying to recall the burden of one of the children’s hymns — 

“ Here we suffer grief and pain, 

Here we meet to part again ; 

In Heaven we part no more. 

Oh I that will be joyful,” &c. 

She recalled his question, the whispered question, to her 
in the happiest part of the day. He asked Libbie, “Is 
Dunham like heaven ? the people here are as kind as angels, 
and I don’t want heaven to be more beautiful than this place. 
If you and mother would but die with me, I should like to 
die, and live always there ! ” She had checked him, for she 
feared he was impious; but now the young child’s craving 
for some definite idea of the land to which his inner wisdom 
told him he was hastening, had nothing in it wrong, or even 
sorrowful, for — 


“ In Heaven we part on more.” 


ERA III 

MICHAELMAS 

The church clocks had struck three ; the crowds of gentle- 
men, returning to business, after their early dinners, had 
disappeared within offices and warehouses ; the streets were 

479 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

clear and quiet, and ladies were venturing to sally forth for 
their afternoon shoppings and their afternoon calls. 

Slowly, slowly, along the streets, elbowed by life at every 
turn, a little funeral wound its quiet way. Four men bore 
along a child’s coffin ; two women with bowed heads followed 
meekly. 

I need not tell you whose coffin it was, or who were 
those two mourners. All was now over with little Frank 
Hall : his romps, his games, his sickening, his suffering, 
his death. All was now over, but the Eesurrection and 
the Life. 

His mother walked as in a stupor. Could it be that 
he was dead? If he had been less an object of her 
thoughts, less of a motive for her labours, she could sooner 
have realised it. As it was, she followed his poor, cast- 
off, worn-out body as if she were borne along by some 
oppressive dream. If he were really dead, how could she be 
still ahve ? 

Libbie’s mind was far less stunned, and consequently far 
more active, than Margaret Hall’s. Visions, as in a phantas- 
magoria, came rapidly passing before her — recollections of 
the time (which seemed now so long ago) when the shadow 
of the feebly- waving arm first caught her attention ; of the 
bright, strangely-isolated day at Dunham Park, where the 
world had seemed so full of enjoyment, and beauty, and life ; 
of the long-continued heat, through which poor Franky had 
panted away his strength in the little close room, where there 
was no escaping the hot rays of the afternoon sun ; of the 
long nights when his mother and she had watched by his 
side, as he moaned continually, whether awake or asleep ; of 
the fevered moaning slumber of exhaustion; of the pitiful 
little self-upbraidings for his own impatience of suffering, 
only impatient in his own eyes, most true and holy patience 
in the sight of others ; and then the fading- away of life, the 
loss of power, the increased unconsciousness, the lovely look 
of angelic peace, which followed the dark shadow on the 
countenance : where was he ? — what was he now ? 

480 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

And so they laid him in his grave, and heard the solemn 
funeral words ; but far off in the distance, as if not addressed 
to them. 

Margaret Hall bent over the grave to catch one last 
glance — she had not spoken, nor sobbed, nor done aught but 
shiver now and then, since the morning ; but now her weight 
bore more heavily on Libbie’s arm, and without sigh or 
sound she fell an unconscious heap on the piled-up gravel. 
They helped Libbie to bring her round ; but long after 
her half-opened eyes and altered breathing showed that 
her senses were restored, she lay, speechless and motionless, 
without attempting to rise from her strange bed, as if the 
earth contained nothing worth even that trifling exertion. 

At last Libbie and she left that holy, consecrated spot, 
and bent their steps back to the only place more consecrated 
still — where he had rendered up his spirit; and where 
memories of him haimted each common, rude piece of 
furniture that their eyes fell upon. As the woman of the 
house opened the door, she pulled Libbie on one side, and 
said — 

“ Anne Dixon has been across to see you ; she wants to 
have a word with you.” 

“ I cannot go now,” replied Libbie, as she pushed hastily 
along, in order to enter the room {his room) at the same time 
with the childless mother; for, as she had anticipated, the 
sight of that empty spot, the glance at the uncurtained open 
window, letting in the fresh air and the broad, rejoicing light 
of day, where all had so long been darkened and subdued, 
unlocked the waters of the fountain, and long and shrill were 
the cries for her boy that the poor woman uttered. 

“ Oh ! dear Mrs. Hall,” said Libbie, herself drenched in 
tears, “ do not take on so badly ; I'm sure it would grieve 
him sore if he were alive, and you know he is — Bible tells us 
so ; and may be he’s here watching how we go on without 
him, and hoping we don’t fret over much.” 

Mrs. Hall’s sobs grew worse and more hysterical. 

“ Oh, listen ! ” said Libbie, once more struggling against 
481 2 I 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

her own increasing agitation, “ listen ! there’s Peter chirping 
as he always does when he’s put about, frightened like ; and 
you know he that’s gone could never abide to hear the 
canary chirp in that shrill way.” 

Margaret Hall did check herself, and curb her expressions 
of agony, in order not to frighten the little creature he had 
loved ; and, as her outward grief subsided, Libbie took up the 
large old Bible, which fell open at the never-failing comfort 
of the fourteenth chapter of St. John’s Gospel. 

How often these large family Bibles do open at that 
chapter ! as if, unused in more joyous and prosperous times, 
the soul went home to its words of loving sympathy when 
weary and sorrowful, just as the little child seeks the tender 
comfort of its mother in all its griefs and cares. 

And Margaret put back her wet, ruffled grey hair from 
her heated, tear-stained woeful face, and listened with sucli 
earnest eyes, trying to form some idea of the “ Father’s 
house ” where her boy had gone to dwell. 

They were interrupted by a low tap at the door. Libbie 
went. “ Anne Dixon has watched you home, and wants to 
have a word with you,” said the woman of the house, in a 
whisper. Libbie went back and closed the book, with a word 
of explanation to Margaret Hall, and then ran downstairs to 
learn the reason of Anne’s anxiety to see her. 

“Oh, Libbie!” she burst out with; and then, checking 
herself with the remembrance of Libbie’s last solemn duty, 
“how’s Margaret Hall? But, of course, poor thing, she ^11 
fret a bit at first ; she’ll be some time coming round, mother 
says, seeing it’s as well that poor lad is taken; for he’d 
always ha’ been a cripple, and a trouble to her — he was a 
fine lad once, too.” 

She had come full of another and a different subject ; but 
the sight of Libbie’s sad, weeping face, and the quiet, 
subdued tone of her manner, made her feel it awkward to 
begin on any other theme than the one which filled her 
companion’s mind. To her last speech Libbie answered 
sorrowfully — 


482 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

“No doubt, Anne, it’s ordered for the best ; but oh ! don’t 
call him, don’t think he could ever ha’ been, a trouble to his 
mother, though he were a cripple. She loved him all the 
more for each thing she had to do for him — I am sure I did.” 
Libbie cried a little behind her apron. Anne Dixon felt still 
more awkward in introducing the discordant subject. 

“ Well ! ‘ flesh is grass,’ Bible says ; ” and, having 
fulfilled the etiquette of quoting a text, if possible, if not of 
making a moral observation on the fleeting nature of earthly 
things, she thought she was at liberty to pass on to her real 
errand. 

“ You must not go on moping yourself, Libbie Marsh. 
What I wanted special for to see you this afternoon, was to 
tell you, you must come to my wedding to-morrow. Nanny 
Dawson has fallen sick, and there’s none as I should hke to 
have bridesmaid in her place as well as you.” 

“ To-morrow ! Oh, I cannot ! — indeed I cannot I ” 

“ Why not ? ” 

Libbie did not answer, and Anne Dixon grew impatient. 

“ Surely, in the name o’ goodness, you’re never going to 
baulk yourself of a day’s pleasure for the sake of yon httle 
cripple that’s dead and gone ! ” 

“ No — it’s not baulking myself of — don’t be angry, Anne 
Dixon, with him, please; but I don’t think it would be a 
pleasure to me — I don’t feel as if I could enjoy it; thank 
you all the same. But I did love that little lad very dearly 
— I did,” sobbing a httle, “ and I can’t forget him and make 
merry so soon.” 

“ Well — I never ! ” exclaimed Anne, almost angrily. 

“ Indeed, Anne, I feel your kindness, and you and Bob 
have my best wishes — that’s what you have ; but, even if I 
went, I should be thinking all day of him, and of his poor, 
poor mother, and they say it’s bad to think very much on 
them that’s dead, at a wedding.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Anne. “ I’ll take the risk of the ill- 
luck. After all, what is marrying? Just a spree. Bob says. 
He often says he does not think I shall make him a good 

483 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

wife, for I know nought about house matters, wi’ working in 
a factory; but he says he’d rather be uneasy wi’ me than 
easy wi’ anybody else. There’s love for you! And I tell 
him I’d rather have him tipsy than any one else sober.” 

“ Oh, Anne Dixon, hush ! you don’t know yet what it is 
to have a drunken husband. I have seen something of it : 
father used to get fuddled, and, in the long run, it killed 
mother, let alone — oh 1 Anne, God above only knows what 
the wife of a drunken man has to bear. Don’t tell,” said 
she, lowering her voice, “ but father killed our little baby in 
one of his bouts ; mother never looked up again, nor father 
either, for that matter, only his was in a different way. 
Mother will have gotten to little Jemmie now, and they’ll be 
so happy together — and perhaps Franky too. Oh I ” said 
she, recovering herself from her train of thought, “never 
say aught Hghtly of the wife’s lot whose husband is given to 
drink 1 ” 

“ Dear, what a preachment ! I tell you what, Libbie, 
you’re as born an old maid as ever I saw. You’ll never be 
married to either drunken or sober.” 

Libbie’s face went rather red, but without losing its meek 
expression. 

“I know that as well as you can tell me; and more 
reason, therefore, as God has seen fit to keep me out of 
woman’s natural work, I -should try and find work for myself. 
I mean,” seeing Anne Dixon’s puzzled look, “ that, as I 
know I’m never likely to have a home of my own, or a 
husband that would look to me to make all straight, or 
children to watch over or care for, all which I take to be 
woman’s natural work, I must not lose time in fretting and 
fidgetting after marriage, but just look about me for some- 
what else to do. I can see many a one misses it in this. 
They will hanker after what is ne’er likely to be theirs, 
instead of facing it out, and settling down to be old maids, 
and, as old maids, just looking round for the odd jobs God 
leaves in the world for such as old maids to do. There’s 
plenty of such work, and there’s the blessing of God on them 

484 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

as does it.” Libbie was almost out of breath at this out- 
pouring of what had long been her inner thoughts. 

“ That’s all very true, I make no doubt, for them as is to 
he old maids ; but, as I’m not, please God to-morrow comes, 
you might have spared your breath to cool your porridge. 
,What I want to know is, whether you’ll be bridesmaid 
to-morrow or not? Come now, do; it will do you good, 
after all your working, and watching, and slaving yourself 
for that poor Franky Hall.” 

“ It was one of my odd jobs,” said Libbie, smiling, though 
her eyes were brimming over with tears ; “ but, dear Anne,” 
said she, recovering herself, “ I could not do it to-morrow, 
indeed I could not.” 

“ And I can’t wait,” said Anne Dixon, almost sulkily : 
“ Bob and I put it off from to-day because of the funeral, 
and Bob had set his heart on its being on Michaelmas-day ; 
and mother says the goose won’t keep beyond to-morrow. 
Do come ; father finds eatables, and Bob finds drink, and we 
shall be so jolly ! and after we’ve been to church, we’re to 
walk round the town in pairs, white satin ribbon in our 
bonnets, and refreshments at any public-house we like. Bob 
says. And after dinner there’s to be a dance. Don’t be a 
fool ; you can do no good by staying. Margaret Hall will 
have to go out washing. I’ll be bound.” 

“ Yes, she must go to Mrs. Wilkinson’s, and, for that 
matter, I must go working too. Mrs. Williams has been 
after me to make her girl’s winter things ready ; only I could 
not leave Franky, he clung so to me.” 

“ Then you won’t be bridesmaid ! is that your last 
word ? ” 

“ It is ; you must not be angry with me, Anne Dixon,” 
said Libbie deprecatingly. 

But Anne was gone without a reply. 

With a heavy heart Libbie mounted the little staircase, 
for she felt how ungracious her refusal of Anne’s kindness 
must appear to one who understood so little the feelings 
which rendered her acceptance of it a moral impossibility. 

485 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

On opening the door she saw Margaret' Hall, with the 
Bible open on the table before her. For she had puzzled 
out the place where Libbie was reading, and, with her finger 
under the line, was spelling out the words of consolation, 
piecing the syllables together aloud, with the earnest anxiety 
of comprehension with which a child first learns to read. So 
Libbie took the stool by her side, before she was aware that 
any one had entered the room. 

“ What did she want you for ? ” asked Margaret. “ But 
I can guess ; she wanted you to be at th’ wedding that is to 
come off this week, they say. Ay, they’ll marry and laugh, 
and dance, all as one as if my boy was alive,” said she 
bitterly. “ Well, he was neither kith nor kin of yours, so 
I maun try and be thankful for what you have done for him, 
and not wonder at your forgetting him afore he’s well settled 
in his grave.” 

“ I never can forget him, and I’m not going to the 
wedding,” said Libbie quietly, for she understood the mother’s 
jealousy of her dead child’s claim. 

“ I must go work at Mrs. Williams’ to-morrow,” she said, 
in explanation, for she was unwilling to boast of her tender, 
fond regret, which had been her principal motive for declining 
Anne’s invitation. 

“ And I mun go washing, just as if nothing had happened,” 
sighed forth Mrs. Hall, “ and I mun come home at night, and 
find his place empty, and all still where I used to be sure of 
hearing his voice ere ever I got up the stair: no one will 
ever call me mother again.” She fell crying pitifully, and 
Libbie could not speak for her own emotion for some time. 
But during this silence she put the keystone in the arch of 
thoughts she had been building up for many days ; and 
when Margaret was again calm in her sorrow, Libbie said — 
“ Mrs. Hall, I should like — would you like me to come for to 
live here altogether ? ” 

Margaret Hall looked up with a sudden light in her 
countenance, which encouraged Libbie to go on. 

“ I could sleep with you, and pay half, you know ; and 
486 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

we should be together in the evenings ; and her as was home 
first would watch for the other, and ” (dropping her voice) 
“ we could talk of him at night, you know.” 

She was going on, but Mrs. Hall interrupted her. 

“ Oh, Libbie Marsh ! and can you really think of coming 
to live wi’ me. I should like it above — but no ! it must not 
be ; you’ve no notion what a creature I am at times ; more 
like a mad one when I’m in a rage, and I cannot keep it 
down. I seem to get out of bed wrong side in the morning, 
and I must have my passion out with the first person I meet. 
Why, Libbie,” said she, with a doleful look of agony on her 
face, “ I even used to fly out on him, poor sick lad as he 
was-, and you may judge how little you can keep it down frae 
that. No, you must not come. I must live alone now,” 
sinking her voice into the low tones of despair. 

But Libbie’s resolution was brave and strong. “ I’m not 
afraid,” said she, smiling; “I know you better than you 
know yourself, Mrs. Hall. I’ve seen you try of late to keep 
it down, when you’ve been boiling over, and I think you’ll 
go on a-doing so. And, at any rate, when you’ve had your 
fit out you’re very kind, and I can forget if you’ve been a 
bit put out. But I’ll try not to put you out. Do let me 
come : I think he would like us to keep together. I’ll do my 
very best to make you comfortable.” 

“ It’s me ! it’s me as will be making your life miserable 
with my temper ; or else, God knows, how my heart clings 
to you. You and me is folk alone in the world, for we both 
loved one who is dead, and who had none else to love him. 
If you will live with me, Libbie, I’ll try as I never did afore 
to be gentle and quiet-tempered. Oh! will you try me, 
Libbie Marsh?” So out of the little grave there sprang a 
hope and a resolution, which made life an object to each of 
the two. 

When Elizabeth Marsh returned home the next evening 
from her day’s labours, Anne (Dixon no longer) crossed over, 
all in her bridal finery, to endeavour to induce her to join 
the dance going on in her father’s house. 

487 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

“Dear Anne, this is good of you, a-thinking of me to- 
night,” said Libbie, kissing her, “ and, though I cannot come 
— I’ve promised Mrs. Hall to be with her — I shall think on 
you, and I trust you’ll be happy. I have got a little needle- 
case I have looked out for you; stay, here it is — I wish it 
were more — only ” 

“ Only, I know what. You’ve been a-spending all your 
money in nice things for poor Franky. Thou’rt a real good 
un, Libbie, and I’ll keep your needle-book to my dying-day, 
that I will.” Seeing Anne in such a friendly mood em- 
boldened Libbie to tell her of her change of place; of hei 
intention of lodging henceforward with Margaret Hall. 

“ Thou never will ! Why, father and mother are as fond 
of thee as can be ; they’ll lower thy rent if that’s what it is 
— and thou knowst they never grudge thee bit or drop. And 
Margaret Hall, of all folk, to lodge wi’ ! She’s such a Tartar ! 
Sooner than not have a quarrel, she’d fight right hand 
against left. Thou’lt have no peace of thy life. What on 
earth can make you think of such a thing, Libbie Marsh ? ” 

“ She’ll be so lonely without me,” pleaded Libbie. “ I’m 
sure I could make her happier, even if she did scold me a bit 
now and then, than she’d be a-living alone; and I’m not 
afraid of her ; and I mean to do my best not to vex her : 
and it will ease her heart, may be, to talk to me at times 
about Franky. I shall often see your father and mother, 
and I shall always thank them for their kindness to me. 
But they have you and little Mary, and poor Mrs. Hall has 
no one.” 

Anne could only repeat, “ Well, I never ! ” and hurry off 
to tell the news at home. 

But Libbie was right. Margaret Hall is a different woman 
to the scold of the neighbourhood she once was ; touched and 
softened by the two purifying angels. Sorrow and Love. And 
it is beautiful to see her affection, her reverence for Libbie 
Marsh. Her dead mother could hardly have cared for her 
more tenderly than does the hard-hearted washerwoman, not 
long ago so fierce and unwomanly. Libbie, herself, has such 

488 


Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras 

peace shining on her countenance as almost makes it beautiful, 
as she tenders the services of a daughter to Franky’s mother, 
no longer the desolate lonely orphan, a stranger on the 
earth. 

Do you ever read the moral, concluding sentence of a 
story? I never do, but I once (in the year 1811, I think) 
heard of a deaf old lady, living by herself, who did ; and, as 
she may have left some descendants with the same amiable 
peculiarity, I will put in, for their benefit, what I beUeve to 
be the secret of Libbie’s peace of mind, the real reason why 
she no longer feels oppressed at her own loneliness in the 
world — 

She has a purpose in life ; and that purpose is a 
holy one. 


489 


THE SEXTON’S HERO 


The afternoon sun shed down his glorious rays on the grassy 
churchyard, making the shadow, cast by the old yew-tree 
under which we sat, seem deeper and deeper by contrast. 
The everlasting hum of myriads of summer insects made 
luxurious lullaby. 

Of the view that lay beneath our gaze, I cannot speak 
adequately. The foreground was the grey-stone wall of the 
vicarage garden ; rich in the colouring made by innumerable 
lichens, ferns, ivy of most tender green and most delicate 
tracery, and the vivid scarlet of the crane’s-bill, which found 
a home in every nook and crevice — and at the summit, of 
that old wall flaunted some unpruned tendrils of the vine, 
and long flower-laden branches of the climbing rose-tree, 
trained against the inner side. Beyond, lay meadow green 
and mountain grey, and the blue dazzle of Morecambe Bay, 
as it sparkled between us and the more distant view. 

For a while we were silent, living in sight and murmuring 
sound. Then Jeremy took up our conversation where, 
suddenly feeling weariness, as we saw that deep green 
shadowy resting-place, we had ceased speaking a quarter of 
an hour before. 

It is one of the luxuries of holiday-time that thoughts are 
not rudely shaken from us by outward violence of hurry 
and busy impatience, but fall maturely from our lips in the 
sunny leisure of our days. The stock may be bad, but the 
fruit is ripe. 

“ How would you then define a hero ? ” I asked. 

490 


The Sexton’s Hero 

There was a long pause, and I had almost forgotten my 
question in watching a cloud-shadow floating over the far- 
away hills, when Jeremy made answer — • 

“My idea of a hero is one who acts up to the highest 
idea of duty he has been able to form, no matter at what 
sacrifice. I think that by this definition, we may include all 
phases of character, even to the heroes of old, whose sole 
(and to us, low) idea of duty consisted in personal prowess.” 

“ Then you would even admit the military heroes ? ” 
asked I. 

“ I would ; with a certain kind of pity for the circum- 
stances which had given them no higher ideas of duty. Still, 
if they sacrificed self to do what they sincerely believed 
to be right, I do not think I could deny them the title 
of hero.” 

“ A poor, unchristian heroism, whose manifestation 
consists in injury to others ! ” I said. 

We were both startled by a third voice. 

“ If I might make so bold, sir ” — and then the speaker 
stopped. 

It was the Sexton, whom, when we first arrived, we had 
noticed, as an accessory to the scene, but whom we had 
forgotten, as much as though he were as inanimate as one 
of the moss-covered headstones. 

“ If I might be so bold,” said he again, waiting leave to 
speak. Jeremy bowed in deference to his white, uncovered 
head. And, so encouraged, he went on. 

“What that gentleman” (alluding to my last speech) 
“ has just now said, brings to my mind one who is dead and 
gone this many a year ago. I, may be, have not rightly 
understood your meaning, gentlemen, but as far as I could 
gather it, I think you’d both have given in to thinking poor 
Gilbert Dawson a hero. At any rate,” said he, heaving a 
long, quivering sigh, “ I have reason to think him so. 

“ Will you take a seat, sir, and tell us about him ? ” said 
Jeremy, standing up until the old man was seated. I confess 
I felt impatient at the interruption. 

491 


The Sexton’s Hero 

“It will be forty-five year come Martinmas,*’ said the 
Sexton, sitting down on a grassy mound at our feet, “ since 
I finished my ’prenticeship, and settled down at Lindal. 
You can see Lindal, sir, at evenings and mornings across the 
bay ; a httle to the right of Grange ; at least, I used to see 
it, many a time, and oft, afore my sight grew so dark : and 
I have spent many a quarter of an hour a-gazing at it far 
away, and thinking of the days I lived there, till the tears 
came so thick to my eyes, I could gaze no longer. I shall 
never look upon it again, either far-off or near ; but you may 
see it, both ways, and a terrible bonny spot it is. In my 
young days, when I went to settle there, it was full of as 
wild a set of young fellows as ever were clapped eyes on : 
all for fighting, poaching, quarrelling, and such-like work, 
I were startled myself when I first found what a set I were 
among, but soon I began to fall into their ways, and I ended 
by being as rough a chap as any on ’em. I’d been there a 
matter of two year, and were reckoned by most the cock of 
the village, when Gilbert Dawson, as I was speaking of, 
came to Lindal. He were about as strapping a chap as 
I was (I used to be six feet high, though now I’m so shrunk 
and doubled up), and, as we were like in the same trade 
(both used to prepare osiers and wood for the Liverpool 
coopers, who get a deal of stuff from the copses round the 
bay, sir), we were thrown together, and took mightily to 
each other. I put my best leg foremost to be equal with 
Gilbert, for I’d had some schooling, though since I’d been at 
Lindal I’d lost a good part of what I’d learnt ; and I kept 
my rough ways out of sight for a time, I felt so ashamed of 
his getting to know them. But that did not last long. I 
began to think he fancied a girl I dearly loved, but who had 
always held off from me. Eh ! but she was a pretty one in 
those days ! There’s none hke her, now. I think I see her 
going along the road with her dancing tread, and shaking 
back her long yellow curls, to give me or any other young 
fellow a saucy word ; no wonder Gilbert was taken with her, 
for all he was grave, and she so merry and light. But 

492 


The Sexton’s Hero 

I began to think she liked him again ; and then my blood 
was all afire. I got to hate him for everything he did. 
Aforetime I had stood by, admiring to see him, how he leapt, 
and what a quoiter and cricketer he was. And now I 
ground my teeth with hatred whene’er he did a thing which 
caught Letty’s eye. I could read it in her look that she liked 
him, for all she held herself just as high with him as with 
all the rest. Lord God forgive me ! how I hated that man.” 

He spoke as if the hatred were a thing of yesterday, so 
clear within his memory were shown the actions and feelings 
of his youth. And then he dropped his voice, and said — 

“ Well ! I began to look out to pick a quarrel with him, 
for my blood was up to fight him. If I beat him (and I were 
a rare boxer in those days), I thought Letty would cool 
towards him. So one evening at quoits (I’m sure I don’t 
know how or why, but large doings grow out of small words) 
I feU out with him, and challenged him to fight. I could see 
he were very wroth by his colour coming and going — and, as 
I said before, he were a fine active young fellow. But all at 
once he drew in, and said he would not fight. Such a yell 
as the Lindal lads, who were watching us, set up ! I hear it 
yet. I could na’ help but feel sorry for him, to be so scorned, 
and I thought he’d not rightly taken my meaning, and I’d 
give him another chance : so I said it again, and dared him, 
as plain as words could speak, to fight out the quarrel. He 
told me then, he had no quarrel against me ; that he might 
have said something to put me up ; he did not know that he 
had, but that if he had, he asked pardon ; but that he would 
not fight no-how. 

“ I was so full of scorn at his cowardliness, that I was 
vexed I’d given him the second chance, and I joined in the 
yell that was set up, twice as bad as before. He stood it 
out, his teeth set, and looking very white, and when we were 
silent for want of breath, he said out loud, but in a hoarse 
voice, quite different from his own — 

“ ‘ I cannot fight, because I think it is wrong to quarrel, 
and us^ violence.’ 


493 


The Sexton’s Hero 

“ Then he turned to go away ; I were so beside myself 
with scorn and hate, that I called out — 

“ ‘ Tell truth, lad, at least ; if thou dare not fight, dunnot 
go and tell a lie about it. Mother’s moppet is afraid of a 
black eye, pretty dear. It shannot be hurt, but it munnot 
tell lies.’ 

“ Well, they laughed, but I could not laugh. It seemed 
such a thing for a stout young chap to be a coward and 
afraid ! 

“ Before the sun had set, it was talked of all over Lindal, 
how I had challenged Gilbert to fight, and how he’d denied 
me; and the folks stood at their doors, and looked at him 
going up the hill to his home, as if he’d been a monkey or a 
foreigner — but no one wished him good e’en. Such a thing 
as refusing to fight had never been heard of afore at Lindal. 
Next day, however, they had found voice. The men muttered 
the word ‘ coward ’ in his hearing, and kept aloof ; the women 
tittered as he passed, and the little impudent lads and lasses 
shouted out, ‘ How long is it sin’ thou turned Quaker ? ’ 

‘ Good-bye, Jonathan Broad-brim,’ and such-like jests. 

“ That evening I met him, with Letty by his side, coming 
up from the shore. She was almost crying as I came upon 
them at the turn of the lane ; and looking up in his face, as 
if begging him something. And so she was, she told me it 
after. For she did really like him, and could not abide to 
hear him scorned by every one for being a coward ; and she, 
coy as she was, all but told him that very night that she 
loved him, and begged him not to disgrace himself, but fight 
me as I’d dared him to. When he still stuck to it he could 
not, for that it was wrong, she was so vexed and’ mad-like at 
the way she’d spoken, and the feelings she’d let out to coax 
him, that she said more stinging things about his being a 
coward than all the rest put together (according to what she 
told me, sir, afterwards), and ended by saying she’d never 
speak to him again, as long as she lived ; she did once again, 
though— her blessing was the last human speech that reached 
his ear in his wild death-struggle. 

494 


The Sexton’s Hero 

“ But much happened afore that time. From the day I 
met them walking, Letty turned towards me ; I could see a 
part of it was to spite Gilbert, for she’d be twice as kind when 
he was near, or likely to hear of it ; but by-and-by she got to 
like me for my own sake, and it was all settled for our marriage. 
Gilbert kept aloof from every one, and fell into a sad, careless 
way. His very gait was changed ; his step used to be brisk 
and sounding, and now his foot lingered heavily on the ground. 
I used to try and daunt him with my eye, but he would always 
meet my look in a steady, quiet way, for all so much about 
him was altered ; the lads would not play with him ; and, as 
soon as he found he was to be slighted by them whenever he 
came to quoiting or cricket, he just left off coming. 

“ The old clerk was the only one he kept company with ; 
or perhaps, rightly to speak, the only one who would keep 
company with him. They got so thick at last, that old Jonas 
would say, Gilbert had gospel on his side, and did no more 
than gospel told him to do ; but we none of us gave much 
credit to what he said, more by token our vicar had a brother, 
a colonel in the army ; and, as we threeped it many a time to 
Jonas, would he set himself up to know the gospel better 
than the vicar? that would be putting the cart afore the 
horse, like the French radicals. And, if the vicar had thought 
quarrelling and fighting wicked, and again the Bible, would 
he have made so much work about all the victories, that were 
as plenty as blackberries at that time of day, and kept the 
little bell of Lindal church for ever ringing ; or would he 
have thought so much of ‘ my brother the colonel,’ as he was 
always talking on ? 

“ After I was married to Letty I left off hating Gilbert. 
I even kind of pitied him — he was so scorned and slighted ; 
and, for all he’d a bold look about him, as if he were not 
ashamed, he seemed pining and shrunk. It’s a wearying 
thing to be kept at arm’s length by one’s kind ; and so Gilbert 
found it, poor fellow. The little children took to him, though ; 
they’d be round about him like a swarm of bees — them as 
was too young to know what a coward was, and only felt 

495 


The Sexton’s Hero 

that he was ever ready to love and to help them, and was 
never loud or cross, however naughty they might be. After 
a while we had our little one, too ; such a blessed darling she 
was, and dearly did we love her; Letty in especial, who 
seemed to get all the thought I used to think sometimes she 
wanted, after she had her baby to care for. 

“ All my kin lived on this side the bay, up above Kellet. 
Jane (that’s her that lies buried near yon white rose-tree) was 
to be married, and nought would serve her but that Letty 
and I must come to the wedding ; for all my sisters loved 
Letty, she had such winning ways with her. Letty did not 
like to leave her baby, nor yet did I want her to take it : so, 
after a talk, we fixed to leave it with Letty’s mother for the 
afternoon. I could see her heart ached a bit, for she’d never 
left it till then, and she seemed to fear all manner of evil, 
even to the French coming and taking it away. Well ! we 
borrowed a shandry, and harnessed my old grey mare, as I 
used in th’ cart, and set off as grand as King George across 
the sands about three o’clock, for you see it were high-water 
about twelve, and we’d to go and come back same tide, as 
Letty could not leave her baby for long. It were a merry 
afternoon were that ; last time I ever saw Letty laugh heartily ; 
and, for that matter, last time I ever laughed downright 
hearty myself. The latest crossing-time fell about nine 
o’clock, and we were late at starting. Clocks were wrong ; 
and we’d a piece of work chasing a pig father had given Letty 
to take home ; we bagged him at last, and he screeched and 
screeched in the back part o’ th’ shandry, and we laughed 
and they laughed ; and in the midst of all the merriment the 
sun set, and that sobered us a bit, for then we knew what 
time it was. I whipped the old mare, but she was a deal 
beener than she was in the morning, and would neither go 
quick up nor down the brows, and they’re not a few ’twixt 
Kellet and the shore. On the sands it were worse. They 
were very heavy, for the fresh had come down after the rains 
we’d had. Lord ! how I did whip the poor mare, to make 
the most of the red light as yet lasted. You, may be, don’t 

496 


The Sexton’s Hero 

know the sands, gentlemen. From Bolton side, where we 
started from, it is better than six mile to Cart Lane, and two 
channels to cross, let alone holes and quicksands. At the 
second channel from us the guide waits, all during crossing- 
time from sunrise to sunset ; but for the three hours on each 
side high-water he’s not there, in course. He stays after 
sunset if he’s forespoken, not else. So now you know where 
we were that awful night. For we’d crossed the first channel 
about two mile, and it were growing darker and darker above 
and around us, all but one red line of light above the hills, 
when we came to a hollow (for all the sands look so flat, 
there’s many a hollow in them where you lose all sight of the 
shore). We were longer than we should ha’ been in crossing 
the hollow, the sand was so quick ; and when we came up 
again, there, again .the blackness, was the white line of the 
rushing tide coming up the bay ! It looked not a mile from 
us ; and when the wind blows up the bay it comes swifter 
than a galloping horse. * Lord help us ! ’ said I ; and then I 
were sorry I’d spoken, to frighten Letty ; but the words were 
crushed out of my heart by the terror. I felt her shiver up 
by my side, and clutch my coat. And as if the pig (as had 
screeched himself hoarse some time ago) had found out the 
danger we were all in, he took to squealing again, enough to 
bewilder any man. I cursed him between my teeth for his 
noise; and yet it was God’s answer to my prayer, blind 
sinner as I was. Ay ! you may smile, sir, but God can work 
through many a scornful thing, if need be. 

“ By this time the mare was all in a lather, and trembling 
and panting, as if in mortal fright ; for, though we were on 
the last bank afore the second channel, the water was 
gathering up her legs; and she so tired out! When we 
came close to the channel she stood still, and not all my 
flogging could get her to stir ; she fairly groaned aloud, and 
shook in a terrible quaking way. Till now Letty had not 
spoken : only held my coat tightly. I heard her say some- 
thing, and bent down my head. 

“ I think, John — I think — I shall never see baby again ! ” 

497 2 K 


The Sexton's Hero 

“ And then she sent up such a cry — so loud, and shrill, 
and pitiful ! It fairly maddened me. I pulled out my knife 
to spur on the old mare, that it might end one way or the 
other, for the water was steahng sullenly up to the very 
axle-tree, let alone the white waves that knew no mercy in 
their steady advance. That one quarter of an hour, sir, 
seemed as long as all my life since. Thoughts and fancies, 
and dreams, and memory ran into each other. The mist, 
the heavy mist, that was like a ghastly curtain, shutting us 
in for death, seemed to bring with it the scents of the 
flowers that grew around our own threshold; it might be, 
for it was falling on them hke blessed dew, though to us it 
was a shroud. Letty told me at after, she heard her baby 
crying for her, above the gurgling of the rising waters, as 
plain as ever she heard anything; but. the sea-birds were 
skirling, and the pig shrieking; I never caught it; it was 
miles away, at any rate. 

“Just as I’d gotten my knife out, another sound was 
close upon us, blending with the gurgle of the near waters, 
and the roar of the distant (not so distant though) ; we could 
hardly see, but we thought we saw something black against 
the deep lead colour of wave, and mist, and sky. It neared 
and neared: with slow, steady motion, it came across the 
channel right to where we were. 

“Oh, God ! it was Gilbert Dawson on his strong bay horse. 

“ Few words did we speak, and little time had we to say 
them in. I had no knowledge at that moment of past or 
future — only of one present thought — how to save Letty, 
and, if I could, myself. I only remembered afterwards that 
Gilbert said he had been guided by an animal’s shriek of 
terror; I only heard when all was over, that he had been 
uneasy about our return, because of the depth of fresh, and 
had borrowed a pillion, and saddled his horse early in the 
evening, and ridden down to Cart Lane to watch for us. If 
all had gone well, we should ne’er have heard of it. As 
it was, old Jonas told it, the tears down-dropping from his 
withered cheeks. 


498 


The Sexton’s Hero 

“ We fastened his horse to the shandry. We lifted Letty 
to the pillion. The waters rose every instant with sullen 
sound. They were all hut in the shandry. Letty clung to 
the pillion handles, but drooped her head as if she had yet 
no hope of life. Swifter than thought (and yet he might 
have had time ‘for thought and for temptation, sir — if he had 
ridden off with Letty, he would have been sav6d, not me), 
Gilbert was in the shandry by my side. 

“ ‘ Quick ! ' said he, clear and firm. ‘ You must ride 
before her, and keep her up. The horse can swim. By 
God’s mercy I will follow. I can cut the traces, and if the 
mare is not hampered with the shandry, she’ll carry me 
safely through. At any rate, you are a husband and a father. 
No one cares for me.’ 

“ Do not hate me, gentlemen. I often wish that night 
was a dream. It has haunted my sleep ever since like a 
dream, and yet it was no dream. I took hisfplace on the 
saddle, and put Letty’s arms around me, and felt her head 
rest on my shoulder I trust in God I spoke some word of 
thanks; but I can’t remember. I only recollect Letty 
raising her head, and calling out — 

“ ‘ God bless you, Gilbert Dawson, for saving my baby 
from being an orphan this night.’ And then she fell against 
me, as if unconscious. 

“ I bore her through ; or, rather, the strong horse swam 
bravely through the gathering waves. We were dripping 
wet when we reached the banks in-shore; but we could 
have but one thought — where was Gilbert? Thick mists 
and heaving waters compassed us round. Where was he ? 
We shouted. Letty, faint as she was, raised’ her voice and 
shouted clear and shrill. No answer came, the sea boomed 
on with ceaseless sullen beat. I rode to the guide s house. 
He was a-bed, and would not get up, though I offered him 
more than I was worth. Perhaps he knew it, the cursed 
old villain ! At any rate, I’d have paid it if I’d toiled my 
life long. He said I might take his horn and welcome. I 
did, and blew such a blast through the etill, black night, the 

499 


The Sexton’s Hero 

echoes and came back upon the heavy air ; but no human 
voice or sound was heard — that wild blast could not awaken 
the dead ! 

“ I took Letty home to her baby, over whom she wept 
the livelong night. I rode back to the shore about Cart 
Lane ; and to and fro, with weary march, did I pace along 
the brink of the waters, now and then shouting out into the 
silence a vain cry for Gilbert. The waters went back and 
left no trace. Two days afterwards he was washed ashore 
near Flukeborough. The shandry and poor old mare were 
found half-buried in a heap of sand by Arnside Knot. As 
far as we could guess, he had dropped his knife while trying 
to cut the traces, and so had lost all chance of life. Any 
rate, the knife was found in a cleft of the shaft. 

“ His friends came over from Garstang to his funeral. I 
wanted to go chief mourner, but it was not my right, and I 
might not; though I’ve never done mourning him to this 
day. When his sister packed up his things, I begged hard 
for something that had been his. She would give me none 
of his clothes (she was a right-down saving woman), as she 
had boys of her own, who might grow up into them. But 
she threw me his Bible, as she said they’d gotten one already, 
and his were but a poor used-up thing. It was his, and so I 
cared for it. It were a black leather one, with pockets at 
the sides, old-fashioned- wise ; and in one were a bunch of 
wild flowers, Letty said she could almost be sure were some 
she had once given him. 

“ There were many a text in the Gospel, marked broad 
with his carpenter’s pencil, which more than bore him out in 
his refusal to fight. Of a surety, sir, there’s call enough for 
bravery in the service of God, and to show love to man, 
without quarrelhng and fighting. 

“ Thank you, gentlemen, for listening to me. Your 
words called up the thoughts of him, and my heart was full 
to speaking. But I must make up ; I’ve to dig a grave for 
a little child, who is to be buried to-morrow morning, just 
when his playmates are trooping off to school.” 

50P 


The Sexton’s Hero 

“ But tell us of Letty ; is she yet alive ? ” asked Jeremy. 

The old man shook his head, and struggled against a 
choking sigh. After a minute’s pause he said — 

“ She died in less than two year at after that night. She 
was never like the same again. She would sit thinking — on 
Gilbert, I guessed ; hut I could not blame her. We had 
a boy, and we named it Gilbert Dawson Knipe : he that’s 
stoker on the London railway. Our girl was carried off in 
teething; and Letty just quietly drooped, and died in less 
than a six week. They were buried here ; so I came to be 
near them, and away from Lindal, a place I could never 
abide after Letty was gone.” 

He turned to his work ; and we, having rested sufficiently, 
rose up, and came away. 


CLOPTON HOUSE 


[The following pages possess a twofold interest as the first 
known publication of their authoress, and as a personal 
reminiscence of her girlhood. During her school-days at 
Miss Byerley’s, in Stratford-on-Avon, she had, some time in 
the years 1825-27, paid a visit to Clopton House, and of 
this, when in 1838 William Howitt announced his “ Visits to 
Eemarkable Places, etc.,” as forthcoming, she offered him an 
account. It was readily accepted, and forms part of a dis- 
cursive chapter of a discursive book, which appeared in 1840. 
Under the heading of a “ Visit to Stratford-on-Avon, and the 
Haunts of Shakespeare,” the worthy author, after dealing 
with the town of Stratford, and urging that among the relics 
of the poet the last of his descendants should not be left 
neglected, passes on to a lively account of Charlecote 
House and Park, and to a notice of “ Clopton Hall ” — more 
properly Clopton House — introduced by the paper of his 
“ fair correspondent.” Howitt pleasantly describes the situa- 
tion of the house, about a mile north-east of Stratford, as 
commanding the whole of the vale in which the town stands, 
while itself “ in a little hollow, as it were, in the upland 
slope.” His brief statement as to the connexion between 
the Clopton family, and the munificent Sir Hugh Clopton in 
particular, and Stratford, may be compared with the authentic 
data in Dugdale’s “ Warwickshire,” and in Mr. Sidney Lee’s 
“ Stratford-on-Avon from the Earliest Times to the Death of 
Shakespeare ” (new edition, 1890). 

Sir Hugh Clopton, who had made a fortune in the City, 
502 


Clopton House 

where he was Lord Mayor in 1492, in his latter days withdrew 
to Stratford, in whose neighbourhood his family had been 
settled for something like three centuries. Here he built for 
himself a house of more importance than any other in the 
town, which was still called New Place within the first 
quarter of the sixteenth century, and which in 1597 became 
the property of Shakespeare. He was the last and the most 
liberal of the early benefactors of Stratford, which owes him 
the bridge across the Avon and the transept of the Guild 
Chapel of the Holy Trinity, the whole of which he rebuilt, 
decorating it with the frescoes now all but annihilated. 

Sir Hugh’s elder brother, Thomas, had inherited, with the 
family estates, the great Clopton Manor House, where he 
built an oratory and the chapel mentioned by Mrs. Gaskell. 
It is curious that her eager eye should have lit in the chap- 
lain’s room upon a copy of All for Love—ihQ attractive 
play in which Dryden, without discredit to himself, treated 
a theme which Shakespeare had treated before him. From 
Thomas the property passed to his son William, and from 
him to his daughter, the wife of George Carew, from 1605 
Lord Carew of Clopton, and afterwards Earl of Totnes. 
Clopton House was, as Mr. Lee says, without doubt one of 
the houses near Stratford where Shakespeare frequently 
visited schoolfellows in the retinues of the owners. On the 
other hand, there are many reasons against, and none directly 
in favour of, the assumption that the scene of the Induction 
in The Taming of the Shrew (which abounds in Warwickshire 
allusions) is Clopton, and the lord its ennobled owner, for- 
merly President of Munster, on whose papers Pacata Hibernia 
was founded. 

On the other hand, a gruesome story, which, naturally 
enough, impressed itself upon the young Elizabeth Steven- 
son’s quick imagination, was the “ legend ” told to her at 
Stratford Church of Charlotte Clopton. It dates from one 
of the plague years, of which Stratford --notoriously insani- 
tary — had more than its share of experience, about the middle 
of the century, very probably from the summer of 1564, 

503 


Clopton House 

when the town was stricken by one of the most fearful 
epidemics that ever visited it, and lost one-seventh of its 
inhabitants by the pestilence. Nothing is more likely than 
that Charlotte Clopton’s doom should have suggested to 
Shakespeare the agonising fears of Juliet. Of the story of 
Margaret Clopton, who drowned herself in the well which 
afterwards bore her name, or of the date of her death, 
nothing is known. 

It is curious that Mrs. Gaskell should not refer to the 
most interesting historical association connected with Clopton 
House. Ambrose Eookwood resided in it with Lord Carew 
in the days of the Gunpowder Plot, and received here many 
of his fellow-conspirators after the discovery of their design. 
On February 26, 1606, his goods were inventoried at Clop- 
ton House, and “ much Papist paraphernalia ” seized, by the 
bailiff of Stratford, accompanied by some burgesses of the 
town 

As Mrs. Gaskell relates, the family of Clopton had not 
flickered out even after the estate and house had passed from 
their possession. In 1792 or 1793 Samuel Ireland, who, 
in 1795, published his Picturesque Views of the Warwickshire 
Avon, was presented at Clopton House with a relic of 
King Henry VII., said to have repeatedly slept under its 
roof. According to the statement, not to be absolutely 
trusted a priori, of William Henry Ireland, who accompanied 
his father on the occasion, they were informed by the then 
proprietor, named Williams, that numerous valuable papers, 
including many with Shakespeare’s name written upon them, 
had been recently destroyed by him. The clever, but un- 
lucky, Mr. W , whose kind wife made the schoolgirls at 

home at Clopton House, can neither have been this Mr. 
Williams, nor the Mr. Ward whom William Howitt found in 
possession, and upon whom he empties the vials of his mild 
wrath for moving the Clopton pictures. The famous old 
house is stated to have been renovated with excellent taste 
by its present owner, the Eev. F. H. Hodgson. 

A. W. W.] 


Clopton House 


“ I wonder if you know Clopton Hall, about a mile from 
Stratford-on-Avon. Will you allow me to tell you of a very 
happy day I once spent there? I was at school in the 
neighbourhood, and one of my schoolfellows was the daughter 

of a Mr. W , who then lived at Clopton. Mrs. W 

asked a party of the girls to go and spend a long afternoon, 
and we set off one beautiful autumn day, full of delight and 
wonder respecting the place we were going to see. We 
passed through desolate half-cultivated fields, till we came 
within sight of the house — a large, heavy, compact, square 
brick building, of that deep, dead red almost approaching to 
purple. In front was a large formal court, with the massy 
pillars surmounted with two grim monsters ; but the walls of 
the court were broken down, and the grass grew as rank and 
wild within the enclosure as in the raised avenue walk down 
which we had come. The flowers were tangled with nettles, 
and it was only as we approached the house that we saw the 
single yellow rose and the Austrian briar trained into some- 
thing like order round the deep-set diamond-paned windows. 
We trooped into the hall, with its tesselated marble floor, 
hung round with strange portraits of people who had been 
in their graves two hundred years at least ; yet the colours 
were so fresh, and in some instances they were so life-like, 
that looking merely at the faces, I almost fancied the origi- 
nals might be sitting in the parlour beyond. More com- 
pletely to carry us back, as it were, to the days of the civil 
wars, there was a sort of miUtary map hung up, well finished 
with pen and ink, shewing the stations of the respective 
armies, and with old-fashioned writing beneath, the names 
of the principal towns, setting forth the strength of the gar- 
rison, etc. In this hall we were met by our kind hostess, 
and told we might ramble where we liked, in the house or 
out of the house, taking care to be in the ‘ recessed parlour ’ 
by tea-time. I preferred to wander up the wide shelving 
oak staircase, wtth its massy balustrade all crumbling and 

505 


Clopton House 

worm-eaten. The family then residing at the hall did not 
occupy one-half — no, not one-third of the rooms ; and the 
old-fashioned furniture was undisturbed in the greater part 
of them. In one of the bed-rooms (said to be haunted), and 
which, with its close pent-up atmosphere and the long 
shadows of evening creeping on, gave me an ‘ ©irie ’ feeling, 
hung a portrait so singularly beautiful ! a sweet-looking girl, 
with paly gold hair combed back from her forehead and fall- 
ing in wavy ringlets on her neck, and with eyes that ‘ looked 
like violets filled with dew,’ for there was the glittering of 
unshed tears before their deep dark blue — and that was the 
likeness of Charlotte Clopton, about whom there was so 
fearful a legend told at Stratford church. Ifi the time of 
some epidemic, the sweating- sickness or the plague, this 
young girl had sickened, and to all appearance died. She 
was buried with fearful haste in the vaults of Clopton chapel, 
attached to Stratford church, but the sickness was not stayed. 
In a few days another of the Cloptons died, and him they 
bore to the ancestral vault ; but as they descended the gloomy 
stairs, they saw by the torchlight, Charlotte Clopton in her 
grave-clothes leaning against the wall ; and when they looked 
nearer, she was indeed dead, but not before, in the agonies of 
despair and hunger, she had bitten a piece from her white 
round shoulder ! Of course, she had walked ever since. This 
was ‘ Charlotte’s chamber,’ and beyond Charlotte’s chamber 
was a state-chamber carpeted with the dust of many years, 
and darkened by the creepers which had covered up the 
windows, and even forced themselves in luxuriant daring 
through the broken panes. Beyond, again, there was an old 
Catholic chapel, with a chaplain’s room, which had been 
walled up and forgotten till within the last few years. I 
went in on my hands and knees, for the entrance was very 
low. I recollect little in the chapel ; but in the chaplain’s 
room were old, and I should think rare, editions of many 
books, mostly folios. A large yellow-paper copy of Dryden’s 
* All for Love, or the World Well Lost,’ date 1686, caught 
my eye, and is the only one I particularly remember. Every 

506 


Clopton House 

here and there, as I wandered, I came upon a fresh branch 
of a staircase, and so numerous were the crooked, half-lighted 
passages, that I wondered if I could find my way back again. 
There was a curious carved old chest in one of these pas- 
sages, and with girlish curiosity I tried to open it ; but the 
lid was too heavy, till I persuaded one of my companions to 
help me, and when it was opened, what do you think we 
saw ? — BONES ! — but whether human, whether the remains 
of the lost bride, we did not stay to see, but ran off in partly 
feigned, and partly real terror. 

“ The last of these deserted rooms that I remember, the 
last, the most deserted, and the saddest, was the Nursery, — 
a nursery without children, without singing voices, without 
merry chiming footsteps ! A nursery hung round with its 
once inhabitants, bold, gallant boys, and fair, arch-looking 
girls, and one or two nurses with round, fat babies in their 
arms. Who were they all? What was their lot in life? 
Sunshine, or storm ? or had they been ‘ loved by the gods, 
and died young ? ’ The very echoes knew not. Behind the 
house, in a hollow now wild, damp, and overgrown with 
elder-bushes, was a well called Margaret’s Well, for there 
had a maiden of the house of that name drowned 
herself. 

“ I tried to obtain any information I could as to the family 
of Clopton of Clopton. They had been decaying ever since 
the civil wars ; had for a generation or two been unable to live 
in the old house of their fathers, but had toiled in London, 
or abroad, for a livehhood ; and the last of the old family, a 
bachelor, eccentric, miserly, old, and of most filthy habits, if 
report said true, had died at Clopton Hall but a few months 

before, a sort of boarder in Mr. W ’s family. He was 

buried in the gorgeous chapel of the Cloptons in Stratford 
church, where you see the banners waving, and the armour 

hung over one or two splendid monuments. Mr. W had 

been the old man’s solicitor, and completely in his confidence, 
and to him he left the estate, encumbered and in bad con- 
dition. A year or two afterwards, the heir-at-law, a very 

507 


Clopton House 

distant relation living in Ireland, claimed and obtained the 
estate, on the plea of undue influence, if not of forgery, on 
Mr. W 's part ; and the last I heard of our kind enter- 

tainers on that day, was that they were outlawed, and living 
at Brussels.” 


END OF V0& 1 . 











• ; -2^' 'Vr. . >11 . ''•'»**. ‘X \Wrf“'iVV*< 

>.l:i- .' 1 \:',- ■■ i' ' TV^'^ ' 




'■ ■m'] 


.t f 


[i 


■■ ■ . »i, . 

‘ • ■ V. •■•>•/>.. I 

’ ^ ..i ' ■ ' '. 


[fl'jl?‘'V :: i 


^ .■ ;.;■ 


<■4 




^ Aw 


« n 


i.1r \ . VS 







•-V. • 


• . 




; r‘ *i;^ 


. * 1 • - 

* * • ' » I « - - k 

iK . ■' : <'• * 


' .IV 


• V I- 





,>v,'l 


’.f ‘ f ' *'V;J 

j;;, ^ .'X. , 



■ ■> > 


f<' 



|4<te ‘"- '*• 

■ '.'^4 I • ■ ' 7 ! 

■ f ', , -v. /; ..•‘. .. . 




•y .' 


* V, '/ ,VJ 


w 







f.sr; 


i- ' :• 


m-;- . 


/ W, . 


i : , '.’ 


■f 


\ 


.'V‘».' 


uf; 







J -. 


. w 


>'3 - i) • 


# ' 


t ' ' 


y-' 

'■. 'f‘t i'lMHiir • ^ T 


ii 




■N .' 



'i • /i> ' Vi •■.>• ' 

4 ' 


f.;:"%f V:‘«' ^ ' 



-I'.' 

• !l J;.', -. .V.* 

.1 . ^ *i’i 


\f. 


»' r 



•. 



■»/ *'• 



•^ / *• 


> ;• k '* 4 ^. . 

.'rSi!:- 

^ ^ * '*• 


» . 


K'lrV' ■ '■■ V 

imAH' ■/ >■ ^ ^'‘ iiA 'iV t'* r 






r 




y I 


W- 


Vi.' . 





v’ '■ 








9 




• • 










«- 

t 

' > 



< I I 







• i 






9 * 









ir 




I » 


6 


[i 








v>«^ 




tK 


T,' V . 


<H 




» ,T 1 


UJVK» . 


\y>i 


L'': i:»f 




N'WiflWwi 


:■& 






U* T’ 


.»!* 




K 




I rVM 




1^1 V>-< 


aft 


‘id 




5f'- 




lU. 




^1 


I'M 


r KMJ i ’■^ 

».i' 


r V.>; 


¥' t-- 






Hfi 


‘,1* 






OTi 




\>Ti\ ^ 




j % 


ssEi 


r’V 


a 




r*- 


H:t 


rr : 


Va 


i/;a* 












fji? 




fj 


•iM 




l'‘•t, 


ir^ 






14 e 




fi> \ * 




• r 


L'ij 






i 

>'*- \ 


r . 




1 1 . ^ #j 


f 


Jr>\ 


/V 


— 7 ' 


• .PJ 
t - A 


• » 


:<j 


^,r>,, 






t^- 






A /t 


- i. 






<•*« 






I I 


4 r '•><,« 


•. V.»i 




If I 






LI 


r!i>* ;,^ ,■. 

, A i; ; 




j , / 








♦iiA t. 


i<; 


1^; 




f • 


1 1 • 1 


». ‘ ' 








L 'M> 
‘Ca ft 'J 


ffw 




,» An 






«T 


ih'M 

V 




I-** .' 


I , 


.4? >"« 




A:-^ yi ^ _, . - 

•?* /' . • 't f : > ^ ' '^''v 

'4* K “ ',:. •' >V V. . , .C 

■' ' # %( >■'"' •f'» '• ■’■ . 


-P*! 


* . 




JlLS 


•"S » 




w. 'n 




-5 




*w 


r ♦• 




¥• r 


:X 






fcvi 


'« L ft 


*V . 


wi 


f»J 


4 ..N 














J .__». 1 


% '( 




a 


rci 


m. 


^ » ' 




I V 




’f* riJ 


s \ 




*i-. 


A . 


^ ^ f 


\ « 


li 


\ 


■I I ( 






I I 


<.> »■' 










i,i«:t-.^ 


Vi-f 


n/*' 


,iaC 


pT-l’ ** 


'Mi -si» 








if^: 




'W 






,<v 




JO, fS, „ 




V - 


rM 




*> » 


!•> 






■j;l 


_f^3 


v^. <, 




V^LV 






^ .3 




vv 


/,>( 




f r 




O *•_'*, 




*«v 


T^wyi 




'i! 


^ • 4 


ft: 


?4V 




*vm: 


V 




v* 


■Vr 


- 





SEP 4 1906 





r. 

I 

4 . 






N , 




*4 





4 



















i-t •-.. 






W*. ' 

I f'JTv 

W « V 

rocA^M^- 



': ri 

V .< . 


4 1906 'III 


i ?.^- 




l>J 


rf 




SEP 6 1906 


j 


V*' 




4 

•V/ 






!<■ /, 


)( - ^ *.»>■' 


4 > 










